The Land of Heart's Desire
by MrsVonTrapp
Summary: What if Marilla and Matthew had adopted a boy? Who would Anne have become without Green Gables and all it represented? What of Gilbert growing up without the one who is his touchstone? How are they different and yet which things remain blissfully similar? And who is that red haired girl at Redmond? Sometimes Providence catches up with you. Traditional in tone; AU in concept!
1. Chapter 1 Hindrances and Perplexities

_Author's Note:_

 _Be still my beating heart! After shadowing your all for a time I am finally coming to the party with my very first fanfic story. I am so happy to be here within this wonderful community!_

 _I've thought very carefully about what I wanted to explore with Anne and Gilbert, and have always been intrigued by the idea of who they might have become without each other. What if Anne had never come to Green Gables? Had never experienced the support of Marilla and Matthew, the friendship of Diana, the steadfast love and admiration of Gilbert, and the sense of home and self she found in Avonlea? And what of Gilbert? Who is he without Anne, his muse, his touchstone? How are they all made different, and what aspects remain the same? Obviously this is a very AU story, with aspects of both the novels and occasionally the Sullivan mini series sneaking in._

 _Of course, though, with the beauty of Providence there are some things and people destined to find you, and you them. There is Redmond College, and there is English class …_

* * *

 **THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE**

* * *

 **Chapter One**

 **Hindrances and Perplexities**

* * *

The small, lily white hand moved with mesmerising speed across the page, filling it with line upon line of neat, looping script. If he stared at it just so, unblinking, he could imagine himself hypnotised by the sensation of the letters materialising, of the weak shaft of sun through the threadbare curtain hitting that hand and turning it golden. His eyes travelled from the hand to the arm, encased in its long sleeved green cloth, with the cream lace at the wrist, swishing gently. Further still, up to a narrow shoulder, then a glimpse of collarbone above collar and more cream lace; and ever upwards to a pale, graceful neck. Finally to that fair face, complexion almost translucent; the chin tilted, usually in stubbornness; the pale cheeks which flushed with color so easily; the proud nose with its smattering of freckles; the dark auburn brows, so expressive they almost spoke a language of their own; the pale forehead, often wearing a tiny crease of concentration; and crowning it, that lustrous, arresting flame of hair, encased today in a single thick braid twisted into a circlet at her nape. If his gaze travelled down again it could linger on that quizzical mouth and lips of shell pink, but it was certainly best not to… and those clear, intelligent grey eyes with the lighter green flecks, which generally regarded him - and it seemed _only_ him – so acrimoniously, he tried to avoid entirely.

The drone of voices that had seemed a mere background accompaniment to his own inner musings, he realised suddenly, had abruptly halted. Really, he must snap himself to attention. His studies were already so focussed on his end goal – so heavily laden with the mathematical and scientific, of the serious and practical – that his one glimmer of whimsy in the week, his one indulgence that was their current tutorial on _Great English Literature_ – should have him on the edge of his seat in anticipation, not slumped in it hunched over like Quasimodo.

Gilbert slowly came back to his senses, blinked, and looked about the room, to find that every pair of eyes rested on him. _Expectantly._

"And what is your opinion on the matter, Mr Blythe? We have been uncharacteristically quiet today."

Gilbert fairly bolted upright, as if shocked out of his stupor. He fought not to open and close his mouth like a feckless fish flapping about at the end of the line.

"Sir?" he queried, hoping his voice didn't emerge as strangled as it sounded to his own ears.

"Your response to Miss Shirley's point, Mr Blythe. We'd appreciate you having one," their venerable professor explained dryly, eyebrow raised in sardonic good humour.

At the mention of her name, Gilbert swung his eyes back to her, to see her observing him, carefully, a little frown line appearing between her own brows, which had lowered in confusion. He could have given many responses to the good professor's demand; such as why the young lady opposite him had taken grave steps to counter – if not actively _destroy_ \- every utterance he had made since the beginning of the term a little over a month ago; why she shared her otherwise sunny disposition and wide, generous smile with everyone else, including the perpetually whiny Ed Sanderson, but saved for _him_ her very darkest looks of affronted disapproval; why she had not shared two words with him outside of their class discussions, even when he had, several times, good naturedly enquired after her welfare, to be met with the briefest of acknowledgements as dictated by common courtesy; and why he had the uncomfortable and altogether astonishing realisation that, for whatever unfathomable reason, she might actually hate him.

 _Those_ thoughts were the ones to assail him; conversely, there was absolutely nothing to assist him in grasping what on earth the others had been discussing the last ten minutes. Were they still on Dickens?

Gilbert cleared his throat. Twice.

His long fingers adjusted his tie.

"Ah…" he floundered, about to drop himself into a very deep pit of humiliation.

"Professor!" came an interruption, a trifle urgently. "I just wanted to make sure I clarified myself properly. Although each book is entitled to be judged on its own merits, in respect to _Mr Dickens_ in particular, athough I acknowledge many of his characterisations to be rather _broad_ , I do believe that they served his deeper purpose; he exercised the _obligation_ he felt to act as a _moral guide_ and to be the voice of those who had none!"

Gilbert stared at that pale face, now ever so slightly flushed, and into those serious, searching grey eyes, now appearing lit by some strange emotion. He was feeling rather strange himself. Miss Shirley, who, particularly a few weeks ago, looked at him like she would smile gladly upon seeing his likeness burned in effigy, had now peered over that deep pit he had dug himself, stared down at him, and had offered him a ladder.

She had quite possibly just paraphrased the entire recent argument for him, complete with emphasis on the most salient points.

He grabbed at the ladder, firmly.

"Yes, _thank you_ , Miss Shirley," their professor was a little impatient now, and turned back to him. "Mr Blythe?"

"Indeed, Sir, Miss Shirley makes an important and valuable point, as she invariably does," Gilbert sat straighter, and the timbre of his voice became steady. His hazel eyes flashed briefly to his unlikely rescuer, risking the fleetest of smiles, before shifting to address the room. He was collecting his thoughts on the hoof, but fortunately his extensive research during the past week – always one of his strengths – came now to support him. He was never better than when he had a firm fact with which to anchor himself.

"Mr Dickens certainly became the voice of the people, and he challenged both church and state to improve the lot of the working poor, the conditions in the workhouses, to improve basic sanitation and such, even back at the time he was a journalist," Gilbert affirmed. "Perhaps he felt an _obligation_ to do so, considering the brushes with poverty he himself experienced growing up, to position himself as some sort of _moral guardian_ of the masses. Absolutely these measures – the Ragged Schools he supported for impoverished children, for instance – were worthy and valuable, and forward thinking, though he was not the only progressive around at the time. What I find problematic is that, as Miss Shirley herself has pointed out, he is known and admired as much if not more for his _moral voice_ ahead of his own indeed _broad,_ rather stereotypical characterisations. That is fine if we are to judge him as a social commentator, even a social _anthropologist_ of sorts,but it is my understanding we are debating his literary merit."

The room fell into an impressed silence, with their professor nodding to himself, appearing rather pleased. However, there was one individual in the room who was, Gilbert could see, startlingly _displeased._

Anne Shirley now, rather obviously, itched to respond, and her determined look was one he had quickly come to know. It was the look of a natural scholar and orator, about to step back up onto her soapbox. She may have offered him a ladder, but he was fully aware she wasn't about to stand idly by, holding it for him.

"Mr Blythe, surely when one reads Mr Dickens, one does so in the light of the poverty of the time and the social injustices of which he wrote," she began, warming to her theme. "One cannot separate one from the other. That _itself_ is the _point._ Mr Dickens did not write of bucolic pastoral scenes or indulge himself with polite drawing room comedies. He wrote about the world he observed around him; of society and its' ills, of the widening division between rich and poor, of corruption and bigotry, of orphan boys beaten and starved in the workhouses!" on the last point Miss Shirley choked slightly, her cheeks now flushed with emotion. It was a rather arresting sight.

"This speaks to me," she continued gamely, "as the very _essence_ of his _literary merit;_ the _moral obligation_ he felt and of which he attempted to stir in others through his writing. He indeed used his voice as a platform for good, and his popularityand influence to introduce and petition for improvements such as those you described. He shone a light into the darkest nooks and crannies of destitute London – perhaps he shone a light into the darkest recesses of man's _soul_ in the process! And if he used archetypes to do so, he did thus in the knowledge that these characters would have the broadest interest and appeal to the very people he was attempting to speak _to!"_

Gilbert had a flash of an image; of Miss Shirley standing in Speaker's Corner in Hyde Park, London, fist raised to the heavens in protest, titian hair in disarray, a milling crowd surrounding her. Possibly before she was forcibly removed by the erstwhile _bobbies_ for disturbing the peace.

He now found himself very definitely leaning forward, on the edge of his seat in all regards, the quickening of his pulse in direct response to the way his mind fevered with all the possible challenges Miss Shirley could further aim at him. For all the hours until now sitting opposite her in their class, he felt that she had been disputing his arguments in order to gain some sort of personal vindication. Now he could feel the sands shifting, and she was finally challenging his viewpoints, now, and not he himself. During most of his schooling, including his studies at Queens, he had longed to have someone oppose him in this way. It had been dispiriting to win almost every argument and acquire almost every prize and accolade not solely on his own merit, but due just as much to a complete absence of competition. It lit a flame in him now that burned away both the uncertainty with which he viewed his abilities and his occasional overconfidence in them; the dual difficulties that he knew had plagued him. That very flame had heretofore only flickered when he gave into his occasional daydreams of his imagined self, long into the future, striding off in the middle of the night to attend an urgent call, doctor's bag resolutely in hand.

And that flickering flame he also saw, before him, burning brightly in a pair of remarkable grey eyes, made more intensely green than he had ever seen them.

"Miss Shirley," Gilbert countered, a small, determined smile in place, "This is the difficulty I am outlining. Are we to forgive Mr Dickens' caricatures, his sentimentalism, his laughable use of coincidence, just because his _message_ is an important one?"

"Rather the _message_ be an important one, Mr Blythe, and rather that the message be _heard_ than be ignored or not even offered at all! Or would you have preferred these social issues to be swept under the carpet? Is it not better to have readers cry over the death of Little Nell or ponder the circumstances wherein an orphan becomes involved in petty crime, without dwelling on whether the writing of such is too manipulative or sensational? I am sure those in the tenements who saved their precious pennies to have _read to them_ the latest monthly instalment of one of his stories did not concern themselves with such matters!" her voice, usually so gently melodious, had leapt an octave in both tone and volume, and now felt like it reverberated off the walls.

Gilbert fought to remain calm, for Miss Shirley was becoming impassioned and incensed enough for the both of them. He shouldn't rise to her invective. He really shouldn't, but he couldn't stop himself. "I hazard that Mr Dickens, for all his noble intentions such as you believe, Miss Shirley, wasn't out in his shirtsleeves distributing alms to the poor of those tenements on a Sunday," he noted dryly, "but was rather writing about their plight from the comfort of his study, or reading his own serialisations in the paper before the warmth of the fire in his front parlour _._ We cannot deny that he achieved great fame and fortune for himself on the back of the _mis_ fortunes of the poor he wrote about."

Gilbert's implication was clear in the horrified gasp emitted from the scandalised lips of Miss Shirley.

" _Mr Blythe,_ " he thought her teeth may well be gritted in response, thought he wasn't entirely sure. "Do you have the _indecency_ to _suggest_ that – "

"Oh for goodness sake!" Ed Sanderson bleated in desperation. "Can't we just read Dickens because we enjoy his stories?"

Both Mr Blythe and Miss Shirley turned to the hapless Mr Sanderson, agog, as if he had just had the temerity to interrupt an important private conversation.

Their professor chuckled loudly. "Excellent, excellent…" he beamed, rubbing his hands together gleefully before pausing to notate a series of marks in his ledger. "Let's continue next week, shall we? When I am sure we can all look forward to hearing Miss Shirley's thoughts on Mr Thomas Hardy's exploration of the _bucolic_ pastoral life and its inevitable dark underbelly." He gave the Miss Shirley in question a broad smile, shaking his head in amusement, his smile still in place as he nodded to Gilbert and followed his students out the door, no doubt anticipating the hot midday dinner awaiting him of which he may have occasionally remarked, to his associates, would make Mr Bumble himself green with envy.

Soon the room had emptied, and Gilbert, who had stood in respect for his professor's exit, now watched Miss Shirley, her cheeks stained bright pink, as she hurriedly packed up her books and papers, shoving them into a beaten brown leather satchel. As he slowly did the same, he gathered his newfound courage, beaming over their exchange. He didn't know who had been the victor today, but he was quite sure it didn't matter.

"Miss Shirley? Might I have a word with you?" he ventured.

She whipped around to him, her face thunderous. "Do you wish to continue your assassination of the good name of one of England's finest novelists and social commentators, Mr Blythe?"

He almost took a step back at her fury, which would have been almost comical if not for the way her hands shook and her eyes sparked with moisture.

"No indeed, Miss Shirley," his tone was surprised and contrite. His eyes widened at her aggrieved state. "I am sorry if you objected to my argument on a personal level, or if the progression of our discussion upset you. I myself was swept away by our exchange. I thought it was all rather brilliant. I just wished to… thank you."

"To _thank_ me, Mr Blythe?" her little laugh was brittle.

"Yes, to thank you, for your thoughts today. They inspired me as you cannot imagine. And to thank you for … _earlier._ I was rather unfortunately… distracted, today, and wasn't as mindful of the start of the discussion as I should have been. I believe you rescued me there. I'm in your debt, Miss Shirley."

Gilbert tried a gallant smile, which was met with a stern glare in return.

"Did you not observe the ledger out? The Professor was marking us on our contributions today."

"No, actually, I'm afraid I didn't, not till it was too late. I was…"

" _Distracted,"_ Miss Shirley's sigh was despairing.

Gilbert smiled again, more shamefacedly, and he thought he almost saw a faint flicker, a miniscule quirk, pass her own lips. It gave him the encouragement, in the quiet hush of the otherwise now empty room, to press on.

"As I say, Miss Shirley, thank you. I was grateful and, perhaps, a little surprised by your actions, given that you… you seem to dislike me."

There, he had made the leap, painful though it was, and her response, read in her swiftly reddening face (and here he thought those cheeks could not have turned darker than they already were) demonstrated that his intuition had been correct.

Miss Shirley turned back to her satchel, taking an inordinate amount of time in securing the straps.

"I felt it unfair that you should be marked down for this tutorial," she explained, seeming to carefully chose her words, "considering that at every other time you have been prepared and engaged, and rather insightful in your observations, even if I haven't always _agreed_ with them." She faced him slowly, her eyes not quite meeting his. "And as to that other matter… well, I don't _dislike_ you, Mr Blythe," the last admission was almost a murmur.

Gilbert was quietly buoyed by her praise, but still not entirely reassured.

"So do you look as black as a thundercloud at every new acquaintance for the first month as a matter of course, Miss Shirley, or did I just receive special treatment?" he queried wryly, hands in pockets, trying to make light of his lingering concern.

She huffed in exasperation, giving a remarkably accurate rendition of the face he had just described.

"I fear you are in a class entirely by yourself, Mr Blythe. Good afternoon!" she grabbed at her satchel, stalking out the door.

Gilbert watched her depart, his mind whirring. He really should put the matter to rest; at least she was speaking to him now, and although her defence of Dickens was puzzlingly passionate to the point of fervour, perhaps they had brokered some sort of stalemate regarding their adversarial relations. But that wasn't quite good enough for him, he realised with a disquiet pang.

He bounded down the stairs of the beautiful old building, taking some two at a time, to find her poised at the entranceway, scanning the now darkening skies.

"Miss Shirley!" he demanded breathlessly.

She turned back, startled, and then rolled her eyes.

"Mr Blythe! You do try one's patience, don't you?"

"I do my best," he grinned unrepentantly, taking up position beside her.

She pursed her lips firmly together as if trying not to let a smile escape, and paid great attention to adjusting her gloves.

"Miss Shirley, please be honest with me. Today notwithstanding, I have to admit to being rather puzzled by our interactions thus far. Have I, in the past, offended you in some way?"

She gave another laugh, as forced and unconvincing as the first. " _Offend_ me, Mr Blythe?"

"Yes," he replied firmly, looking down at her, his eyes steady and unwavering on hers.

She broke his gaze, looking away. "It hardly matters now, Mr Blythe. Don't concern yourself."

"But I _am_ concerned, Miss Shirley!" his composure finally began to break. "When have you not looked at me, during our entire brief acquaintance, with anything other than scowling disapproval?"

Something in her seemed to break as well. He could see her struggle. "And I guess you go around _flattering_ every female freshman with lurid metaphors about their appearance!" she snapped.

Gilbert looked at the intriguing and unfortunately infuriating Miss Shirley in astonishment, afraid she had taken sudden leave of her senses.

"Miss Shirley, I don't understand you! If you could stop hedging and avoiding long enough to give me a straightforward answer to a straightforward question… "

" _Carrots!"_ she hissed, eyes blazing.

She stared, furious, into his eyes, waiting for comprehension to dawn. Gilbert stared back, mulling over the extraordinary declaration, his dark brows knotted together in frustration. Did she mean in relation to the color of her hair? What on God's good earth would possess her to describe herself in that way?

He himself had only used the silly schoolboy description once, when –

His eyes widened. _Oh blast it!_

Gilbert paled, remembering. "You heard," he whispered, his stomach making a slow plummet down to his shoes.

Her steely grey gaze was all the confirmation he required. Wordlessly she launched herself into the wind, absolutely uncaring as to the threat of rain now hovering in the air. Or maybe she simply preferred even the company of the gathering storm to one more minute with him.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

 **I lovingly take my story title and inspiration for chapter titles from** _ **Anne of the Island**_ **where possible.**

" _ **In imagination she sailed over storied seas… with the evening star for pilot, to the land of Heart's Desire." (Anne of the Island, Ch.1)**_

 **[With acknowledgement to JennWithaPenn, who wrote the lovely story 'Heart's Desire' a few years ago – obviously we drew title inspiration from the same source!]**

'' _ **All the hindrances and perplexities will be taken away, and we shall see clearly**_ **.'' (** _ **Anne of the Island**_ **Ch.14)**

 **[I hope I will be forgiven for taking Anne's words to poor Ruby and giving them a very different context].**


	2. Chapter 2 Give a Villain a Chance

**With such grateful thanks to all the wonderful reviews and follows thus far.**

 **I wish you could properly know my delight!**

 **Chapter Two**

 **Give a Villain a Chance**

 _Gilbert's grin was fixed to his face as he wandered the grounds of Redmond College, in his very first week of classes, sure as he had ever been that his place was here, almost delirious with the thought that his life could finally start. He had felt it on hiatus ever since that dreadful spring when he was still just a boy; when he would awake, in the night, not to the crickets serenading or the rustle of the wind in the trees, but to the sound, muffled but unmistakable, of desperate lungs gasping for air, of the hacking, insidious, ceaseless cough._

 _And now, he admired the haughty grandeur of the stately buildings, the neat paths, the manicured lawns, even as he acknowledged the irony of the contrast to his cramped, utilitarian, uninspiring boarding house quarters. He had a very definite feeling he would be spending all the time he possibly could outdoors; Kingsport would be made to give up her secrets as Avonlea had, and he would learn in time to navigate her as he had the lanes and fields and dusky red roads of home._

 _He was not the only one marvelling in his surrounds this early morning; in the distance he could see her, the other side of the nearly empty quad, making him grin to himself as she looked up and around more often than she looked ahead, her arms weighed down by too many books, speaking to her enthusiasm over being here as much as gushing sentiments ever could. He recognised her from his first Literature class only the previous day; if he had been closer to her he would have known her by her intelligent, inquiring grey eyes; her earnest bookworm industriousness, leavened by quick flashes of humour; her ready, knowing smile; but at this, so many paces yet from her, somewhat inevitably, he knew her for her hair._

 _He was almost at the point of a wave, to attract her attention, but they were on the same path, and would soon meet in the middle. He searched his mind for an amusing anecdote to tempt her, but then was sidetracked by his name, shouted from behind._

" _Blythe!"_

 _Gilbert turned to see, somewhat regretfully, that it was one of the fellows from his boarding house. Tall and strapping, with a surface affability that did little to mask a private arrogance. They would probably end up on the football team together, so he couldn't dodge the acquaintance, but it was one that he knew, instinctively, he would take no pleasure in._

" _Hey there, Peters."_

 _George Peters slapped him on the back, heartily, his greeting over familiar, in the way of such men._

" _Out for your morning constitutional, then, Blythe?" he grinned, looking about as if Gilbert had noticed something in the trees or the flowerbeds that he had missed. "Ah… taking in the sights, I see."_

 _Peters' gaze had fallen on a certain individual, making her way towards them, not having altered her course, Gilbert noted with a certain admiration. The two men slowed, expectantly._

" _I think I'm going to like college," Peters muttered under his breath, with a broad smile to Gilbert that could have been a leer._

 _The young lady paused before them. Indeed she could not pass them without difficulty. They were their own line back; Gilbert reflected uncomfortably on how intimidating the sight of them together in this way must be to her, and stepped to his side._

" _Miss… er …" Gilbert hesitated, trying to remember._

" _Shirley," she answered firmly, awkwardly adjusting the books in her arms._

" _Yes of course, Miss Shirley," he greeted, offering a warm smile. "Good Morning…"_

" _Miss Shirley, is it?" Peters interrupted with alacrity, not even having the good sense – let alone the good manners – to wait for Gilbert to introduce them. "Pleased to make your acquaintance. George Peters. I'm in rooms with Blythe here. You look rather loaded up – can I offer assistance?"_

 _Peters had stepped forward unsolicited and, obviously alarmed, Miss Shirley had stepped back._

" _No thank you, Mr Peters! I'm quite fine with these. I haven't far."_

" _Sorry, Miss Shirley, we will allow you to be on your way," Gilbert apologised, stepping even further off the path as if overcompensating for his companion, and her huge grey eyes flashed to him with something approaching gratitude, before lighting again on Peters who still stood, blocking her belligerently._

" _Thank you, Mr Blythe. Good morning, gentlemen," Miss Shirley responded quickly, head up resolutely, and stalked past them, although her skirts had to come into contact with Peters as he had not moved an iota, which rather contradicted his earlier appearance of chivalry._

 _Gilbert watched Peters turning to watch Miss Shirley and felt the distaste rise in him, and this was in the full knowledge that he himself had more than once been referred to by Mrs Rachel Lynde as The Great Flirt of Avonlea._

 _Peters reluctantly turned back, smirking, and Gilbert made a mental note to have as little to do with him as possible._

" _Well, Blythe, and what would you call that?"_

 _Gilbert turned away, frustrated, thrusting hands in pockets, fearing his morning had been ruined irrevocably._

" _I don't follow your meaning," he frowned._

" _The hair! Have you ever seen its' like? Extraordinary! How to even describe it?"_

 _Gilbert considered this, momentarily, pausing to stare into the middle distance. "A flaming sunset," he offered, almost to himself._

" _Oh, good God, Blythe!" Peters scoffed. "Save us all from the romantics! Although what should I have expected from an Island boy?"_

 _The remnants of Gilbert's good mood dissolved completely and he found himself scowling like a schoolboy at the jibe. He was not some stupid, backwards provincial. He'd won the Gold Medal at Queens, for goodness sake._

" _Well, then," he plucked the first thing that came to mind. "As vivid as … as orange as… a bunch of carrots!"_

 _Peters laughed loudly, obviously easily amused. "Carrots! I like it! All credit to the farmer's son!"_

 _Gilbert began walking, wanting to separate himself from Peters and the entire unfortunate encounter. Unbeknownst to either man, during their conversation, the flame haired young lady in question had dropped one of her many books, requiring her to quickly, silently, double back. Gilbert, uneasy, had gone almost a dozen paces before he had turned, and it was a great relief for him to observe Miss Shirley had made her escape, already far from them, her determined pace so brisk she almost looked at a run._

* * *

Anne Shirley, as she had that day a month ago, allowed her fury and mortification to propel her across the quad, walking at such a ferocious pace she almost welcomed the sharp stab of pain to her side, all the better to deflect attention away from her heart constricting in her chest for an entirely different reason. She slowed, taking in great gulps of the air that burned her throat and made her gasp. The heightened wind whipped around her, blowing stray red tendrils into her eyes which she tugged away impatiently, ineffectually. She darted a glance around her; the perfectly calm morning, with its faint, lazy sun, had given way to this growing tempest; the trees disgruntledly swaying; the flowers in their well tended beds buffeted and bent over; the sky beginning to swirl from pale blue to grey, as if Prospero himself was stirring a malevolent spell.

Her temper, which had been brought to heel on a very short leash over a number of painful years, had broken free of her in the worst possible way. The last thing she had wanted to do was to make _that_ painful admission to the very person who had caused it to again rear its head. She had relished this opportunity for a new beginning, where no one knew her, where she could not so much reinvent herself as present to the world the new, improved, enlightened version of Miss Shirley; buffed and polished, with all the little dents and chinks smoothed out. And before that new version was even allowed to take hold she found herself, in Literature class, darting daggered looks, consumed with revenge.

… _I could easily forgive_ _ **his**_ _pride, if he had not mortified mine…*_

Now Anne sighed and despaired at herself, seeing that her hasty, hot headed journey had taken her in the opposite direction to where her boarding house lay, with the additional definite threat of rain in the air. Perhaps she could skirt around back to her destination via some of the parallel streets in town. She drew her overcoat around her more tightly, head down, prepared to be caught in the inevitable downpour. Really, this was Kingsport, Nova Scotia, not the French Riviera. She should always carry an umbrella at this time of year. Why didn't she bring her umbrella? Because, she sighed again to herself, lustily, it was her Literature class, that's why. And because her head had been full of what she may or may not say to one Mr Blythe _this week_ to worry about such prosaic practicalities.

Anne quickened her pace again, clutching at her satchel protectively. The wind squalled and her hair fought a losing battle with it. At last the fat raindrops began to appear; the prequel to the coming event. She looked up to squint at the sky but all was black.

She looked up, astonished, under the canopy of Gilbert Blythe's umbrella.

" _Pardon me – may I offer you – "**_

Gilbert Blythe was unable to get the rest of the words out; the heavens opened and all merry hell very literally rained down on them.

"This way, Miss Shirley!" he shouted above the hubbub, half taking her arm and dashing with her ahead, to the edge of campus and through the gates, joining the throng of students who were doing the same with excitable shouts and cries. Gilbert Blythe directed her, not to the nearest building in front of them just outside of the College's surrounds, now being commandeered by half the town population, but around the corner, down the next street, till they came to a generous shop awning. They huddled under it as the rain pummelled them overhead.

Anne gratefully leant against the front of the building, wincing as she clutched at the pain in her side.

"Thank you… for your assistance … Mr Blythe…" she gasped.

Gilbert Blythe had been shaking out and folding his umbrella, barely troubled by their physical exertions. He turned to her now.

"You are very welcome, Miss Shirley," he gave her a careful smile, and then his hazel eyes narrowed. "Do you have a stitch, there?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"A sharp pain in your side. It's caused when our breathing and running are not in time together."

She looked askance at him, nodding quickly as her face contorted and her hand went back to press on her side.

Gilbert Blythe moved closer to her, instructing her over the roar of the rain.

"Just breathe deeply, Miss Shirley, deeply and slowly. Concentrate on the breath. It will pass. We get them all the time in football training." He offered her a loaded look. "Of course our movements are not additionally constricted as they are for ladies."

Anne gave him an astonished glare, momentarily forgetting her pain. Gilbert Blythe had just made reference to her _corset._ He silently accepted her glare and her admonishment, muzzling a small, shamefaced smile and stepping back from her.

She breathed deeply. She breathed slowly. The pain eased.

Attempting to properly compose herself, she patted down her coat, shook out her skirts, and realised that, apart from her rather sodden boots, she was nearly bone dry. However, in obvious contrast, her companion's dark curls were plastered to his head, his face was dripping with the rivulets that ran down it from said hair, and his coat was wet and heavy. Although his umbrella, which he had stowed under the eaves, was generous in size, he had used it to shelter her completely, leaving himself absolutely exposed to the elements. Anne's brows came together. Such gallantry was not at all what she was used to, and almost impossible to reconcile with the knowledge that he had so carelessly insulted her those many weeks ago.

"Mr Blythe!" she offered in clear dismay. "I am afraid you're soaked!"

He turned back to her from his position scanning the steady rain, a broad grin breaking out on what was, she realised distractedly, a remarkably handsome face.

"It would appear so, Miss Shirley," he offered good naturedly, seemingly unconcerned.

Their eyes met, and then both looked away.

"Miss Shirley – "

"Mr Blythe - " they began simultaneously.

"Miss Shirley," he continued. "As much as I do hold to _ladies first,_ I respectfully ask on this occasion that you hear me out."

Anne could feel the color come to her pale, cold cheeks.

"As you wish, Mr Blythe."

She noted him taking a breath, steeling himself. He approached her with slow steps.

"Miss Shirley, I am so desperately sorry to have caused you offence, and to have just realised that you overheard my stupid, insulting remark, which shouldn't have been for anyone's ears, let alone yours. I regretted it instantly, thinking it was not known to you, and resolved to do better. But now that I know it _was_ heard by you _…_ " he faltered, his hazel eyes showing a flash of contrition, his face etched in regret.

"You hurt my feelings most _excruciatingly_!"

Gilbert Blythe sighed, deeply. "Yes, I understand. And well might I now understand all the verbal barbs in class you have thrown at me in the wake of my idiocy."

Anne bit the inside of her lip, a little chastened herself. On the strength of one ill judged comment, accidentally overhead, she had launched some stinging attacks of her own, hidden behind the intellectual sparring of their discussions in class. Her anger and mortification had held firm for around a fortnight; thereafter it was easier to continue the vendetta rather than try to explain, even to herself, her desire to abandon it.

Anne crossed her arms in front of her, to both ward off the cold as well as her uneasy conscience.

"And what of the friend with you that day?" she challenged. "He seemed to enjoy your _cleverness_ hugely."

Gilbert Blythe's face darkened by degrees. "Believe me, Miss Shirley, George Peters is _no_ friend of mine, then or now."

She tilted her chin. "I am very glad to hear it."

He smiled knowingly at that, offering a nod of his head in silent acknowledgement. There was a pause.

"I'm sorry, Miss Shirley," Gilbert Blythe offered simply.

His eyes searched hers and held them. His earnestness and sincerity were obvious, even as her pride warred with itself and the memory of the past slights and untold embarrassments of her childhood rose to taunt her. There was, she felt instinctively, no malice in him. Moreover, there was something in that honest, direct, intelligent hazel gaze that caused the pulse to strum in her throat.

She cleared that throat, carefully. "Apology accepted, then, Mr Blythe."

His response was not one of triumph but, surprisingly, of relief, as was his answering smile.

"That is very good to know. Thank you, and please, call me Gilbert."

"Very well then, Gilbert," she couldn't help but meet his grin with a reluctant smile of her own. "And, well, as you know, it's Anne."

"Is that Anne with an _e_ , then?" his tone and look was all innocence even as he tried to hide his smirk, remembering her forceful insistence on the issue of spelling in their very first tutorial.

She refused to be flustered, arching an imperious eyebrow instead. This seemed to please him unduly, and he chuckled and passed a hand through his damp curls, shaking the excess moisture off them.

"Really, Mr - er, _Gilbert_ – you really should abandon that coat. You'll catch your death of cold!"

He made a great show of testing out his sodden coat and shivering on cue. "It would be a small price to pay, Anne Shirley, to have finally gotten off on the right foot," he grinned at her, hazel eyes alight.

"Just so long as you don't again put your foot _in_ it, Gilbert Blythe," she replied sweetly.

He laughed loudly at that, and she allowed her own pleased smile. He leant in close to her.

"I assure you, Anne Shirley, I will _tread_ with the utmost care from now on!"

Anne rolled her eyes at this and almost groaned. "What astonishing wordplay, Mr Blythe! I think you did better with _carrots_!"

Her teasing grin combined with the green lights in her grey eyes, and his clear surprise at her turning the tables on him, may have caused his cheeks to flush ever so slightly. Although it could, admittedly, have been the cold wind chafing them.

He shook his head at her, his smile wry, and she watched as he walked carefully to the edge of the overhang that had so protected them, looking out again. The rain was finally beginning to ease, after the initial deluge, and the wild wind was dying down. There was almost, now, an unnatural calm descending.

"I'm sure there will be scads of people caught out in this today," Anne ventured, trying her best at something approaching regular conversation, nodding to the rain from their safe haven. "Our classes will probably be half full tomorrow with those laid low by it."

Gilbert's hands were in the pockets of his coat as he turned to her again, and now it was he who rolled his eyes. "Don't believe that old chestnut, Anne. You can't _catch_ a cold from being caught _out_ in it. It doesn't work that way. The common cold is an _infection_."

She was heartily bemused by his precocious pomposity, and it showed in her answering look and tone.

"Well, thank you _very_ much for that information, _Doctor_ Blythe! Stitches in the side, the cause of the common cold… are we undertaking secret medical training?"

She was astonished to see him pause, stock still, his face taking on a peculiar look that was both eager and embarrassed, as if a boy caught out with some mischief, and unsure as to whether to confess it. He stared at her a long moment before answering.

"Perhaps… perhaps I may wish to, eventually."

Anne blinked, a little incredulous. "You want to become a doctor?"

He contemplated his answer carefully, brows drawn together as he looked away briefly, and then back to her, his expression guarded.

"Yes…" he admitted. "Yes, I have, for a while now. Not that it will do me any good at this stage to even _think_ about it. It's such a long way off that the very _idea_ is slightly ridiculous…" he grimaced, suddenly chagrined.

"No, it's not ridiculous, Gilbert," she was quietly admiring, her huge grey eyes suddenly serious on his.

He stared at her further, as if judging her response, before offering a smile that was almost shy, pacing again up and down. He stopped and ran a hand again through his drying curls, causing them to stand to attention at entirely disparate angles, like drunken soldiers.

"Well, all it amounts to at the moment is dipping into a few medical texts," he shrugged, "which is _hardly_ anything very noteworthy. Although… the idea that I might be interested in a medical career at _all_ is… well … it's rather a little known fact. I'd like to keep it that way, if you don't mind, Anne."

"Of course…" she nodded, unhesitatingly.

"Thank you," he expelled a breath. "Keeping my secrets, now. That's a little way along from debating Dickens." He quirked a smile, and his look was searching. "It's something that a _friend_ would do, come to think of it."

He let the idea sit with her. Anne was disturbed by the warmth that flooded her cheeks at this most audacious prospect, untenable even hours ago.

"Do you think we _could_ be friends, Anne?" he queried, smiling. "It's not quite so draining on the psyche as me being your mortal enemy, surely? And I think …" here he paused, and then grinned leadingly, "I think, despite all appearances to the contrary, that we might be rather good at it."

Anne blushed even more fully, much to her annoyance. She flashed a look at him, registering his imploring hazel gaze, his knowing, sardonic smile, those damnably desirable dark curls.

"I would have thought the recently elected President of Freshman Year to be overrun with all manner of friends, Mr Blythe," she offered a little archly, grasping at her last line of defence.

He looked to consider her response carefully. "Why yes indeed, Miss Shirley," he answered with mock gravity, nodding, though the twinkle in his eye clearly betrayed him, "though it would be refreshing to have _one_ friend who was at least as smart as me."

She didn't want to give him the satisfaction of her pleased smile but it escaped regardless, cantering away from her.

Gilbert seemed to sense his advantage, because he leaned in again, conspiratorially. "And I don't _really_ mind Dickens.''

She reddened dangerously, and couldn't possibly look at him in that moment, so she turned her attention to the view of the street, noticing for the first time that the clouds had emptied themselves, and all was finally calm and quiet and still.

 _Friends._ Her throat closed painfully around the word. Gilbert Blythe evidently collected friends with the insulting ease of a tall flower attracting bees. They buzzed around him excitedly, male and female alike, jostling for prime position, in a frenzy of swarming adulation. How was he to know of the exquisite agony of the moments before acceptance or, more likely, of rejection? Of serving your heart up on a platter, either to be consumed entirely or chewed and spat out at will?

Anne had hardly _collected_ any friends not of the imaginary variety, growing up. Except for that one boy of long ago; tall and tow haired, gangly and good natured, and best forgotten. Friendships with _men_ she was not adept at handling either; they regarded her curiously, like some unusual zoo exhibit, not quite sure how to take her. Or else they looked at her like George Peters had looked that day, quietly assessing, with a cutthroat's smile.

But the man standing patiently with her, this moment, didn't look _at_ her or _through_ her, and yet still seemed to _see_ her.

She took a halting breath.

"Dickens…" Anne now answered, finally looking back to him, acquiescing to inevitable defeat, "is probably best left off the table, _between friends,_ Gilbert Blythe," she smiled into his eyes, but then her own narrowed in challenge. "However, if you come in merry defence of Mr Thomas _misogynist_ Hardy next week, I might have to break something over your head!"

Gilbert Blythe, who had thought he had lost her for a moment there, that she had journeyed momentarily to a place to which he could never follow, now rewarded her with his most appealing grin, hands raised in surrender.

"Your warning is duly noted, Miss Shirley!" he laughed.

 **Chapter Notes**

" _ **If I had to have villains at all, I'd give them a chance, Anne – I'd give them a chance."**_

 _ **(Anne of the Island Ch.12)**_

 ***Elizabeth Bennet in** _ **Pride and Prejudice**_ **(Ch. 5)** [ _ **Naturally]**_

 _ **** "Pardon me – may I offer you the shelter of my umbrella?" (Anne of the Island**_ **Ch.** **25)**


	3. Chapter 3 A Likely Looking Girl

**Author's Note:**

Thank you to all the amazing, wonderful Anne-girls out there who have been so kind to review and follow this. I am still getting a chance to respond and thank you all personally (Real Life can be so pesky!) and I wish to also thank the fantastic readers who have logged on as guests.

This story is still very fluid and of-the-moment and I take each and every one of your insights and comments around with me.

Your feedback has already helped to make this more than I thought it would be.

Joanne x

* * *

 **Chapter Three**

 **A Likely Looking Girl**

" _Do you suppose," the overeager, excitable voice questioned at a speed and pitch not often encountered by the flabbergasted lady, "that the founding fathers of Hopetown so named it as a symbol of their faith or an ironical mediation on their despair? Certainly I would like to believe that the former is the case; who would want to name the place you are to live based on a private joke? But I don't think even they could have dreamed up a scenario whereby an orphan asylum which_ feeds _on hope should so be_ named _a_ town _of_ hope _ **–**_ _as if it were almost a beacon as such. I've never thought of it that way before. Do you like the symmetry of that? Because I do. I have often had to cling onto Hope myself. I remain resolutely hope_ ful. _Do you think a new family might come for me soon?"_

 _Mrs Cadbury, director of the very institution whose name had precipitated such conjecture, had cause to blink several times before understanding there was even a question in the torrent of words which swept past her, let alone form the ability to answer it._

" _Goodness, child! Mrs Hammond only dropped you off this afternoon! Or should I say_ deposited, abandoned _and otherwise demonstrated a clear dereliction of her duty." The woman's thin lips were made to virtually disappear in the disapproving line they formed across her face. "Can we not actually have you settled for_ one _night here before you make plans to leave?"_

" _I'm sorry, Mrs Cadbury. I meant no offence. You have indeed made it much nicer since I was here last. I don't rightly notice any improvements yet, but then I_ was _away nearly three years."_

" _Was it only three years?" Mrs Cadbury sighed. "It seems like only_ yesterday _ **,**_ _Anne Shirley. You've hardly changed a bit, but for the fact you're slightly taller and have a much larger and more worrisome vocabulary."_

" _Oh but my hair, though!" Anne tried not to plead. "Do you think it might have darkened up in that time? I'm eleven now. I can't ever hope for nut brown – that's something even_ my _imagination couldn't tackle. But do you think perhaps it is on its way to auburn?"_

 _Mrs Cadbury's thin lips very nearly curved upwards, before she remembered herself._

" _Vanity is a sin, Anne Shirley. No more such ramblings from you or you'll wake the entire building. Get into bed now. Over there, by the window. And try to keep your mouth closed till morning."_

 _Anne did as instructed. Mrs Cadbury didn't so much tuck her in as wave the threadbare blanket in her general direction. Anne brought it up to her chin, and all that was seen were her big, grave grey eyes in her pale, thin face, and the faint light from the streetlamp through the window made the image positively otherworldly._

* * *

 _Anne realised soon enough that there had been a great many changes at the orphanage, even if they hadn't extended to the furnishings. There were so many more little ones about; crying babies and bewildered toddlers with noses perpetually streaming; youngsters who constantly ran up and down the stairs or, more audaciously, attempted to slide the bannisters, when they weren't hollering over some grievance or other, real or imagined; a tall, fair, mostly silent boy a little older than herself who someone had whispered was a recent arrival, and who surveyed proceedings from the relative safety of various corners of the establishment with a look of bewildered panic._

 _It was just as well, Anne thought, that she was quite good with children. She'd had enough practice; Mrs Hammond had certainly had her share of them._

 _There was a beautiful little girl in particular, appropriately called Lily; delicate as the flower itself, her enviable nut brown hair flowing as if a rippling river down her back, her green eyes wide and patient and wondering. She wore the world weary air of an old soul, and went about the business of the day with startling seriousness for an individual no more than five. As Anne began to read to the children at night, as had always been her habit, she started with a few of them heaped on her bed; soon her audience grew to such an extent that she had to take a chair and have half of them perched on the rug beneath her. The Lily Maid, as Anne had christened her, bestowing a literary gift the child was oblivious to, hovered about on the very edges of the group, as an ethereal presence; a ghost with her pale face and her shimmering hair and her tiny pale nightgown._

 _Another reluctant fringe dweller during these night time readings was the new, tall boy, who didn't so much stick to the shadows as attempt to fade into the furniture. He and Anne, it struck her, were almost the oldest of the children now even at their own still-tender ages; once thirteen or fourteen, boys invariably tried their luck in the various and invariably risky workplaces about town; the factories that gobbled up their ready, cheap labour; apprenticing themselves to a trade or other; even taking to the streets to sell newspapers or to shine the shoes of the impatient adults they accosted on the sidewalks. Girls tried their best at gaining a position in a house somewhere, the lowest of the low; cleaning grates and lighting fires and scrubbing floors, swapping the monotonous chores of the asylum for the drudgery of domestic service._

 _In the interests of finding any sort of companion, Anne finally approached him a week or so after her arrival. He was invariably housed in a corner by a window somewhere, as if at any moment he would throw himself out, in sheer desperation, in his bid for freedom. He read a little or whittled occasionally, or drew pictures with a long finger in the dust coating the windowsills. Mostly he stared at the children as they went about their activities or haphazard lessons, and today he stared at her as she made her long approach._

" _Hello," she offered her hand and a wide, game smile, "I'm Anne. Anne Shirley. Anne is spelt with an 'e' you know, just to be clear. Or you may call me Cordelia, which I much prefer, but Mrs Cadbury and Matron have rather discouraged that. Very pleased to meet you."_

 _Her arm was extended to him; her hand awaited his own. He looked at it and then at her with pale blue eyes that could have been bright and cheerful, but that had dulled in the wake of his disinterest in his life and in whatever disasters had previously befallen him._

 _He took the hand and shook it briefly, in a grip surprisingly firm, but his mouth did not work to make greeting in return._

 _This hardly troubled Anne, who was used to having one-sided conversations at the best of times. She hopped up neatly onto the windowsill, swinging her legs._

" _You seem to have been here a relatively short time. I know well the feeling of terror this place and the marauding children must instil. We are rather a wild lot_ _ **.**_ I _should know; I've lived here my whole life, except for the past few years when I was fostered out, mostly to Mr and Mrs Harrison and their frighteningly large family._ Three _sets of twins! Can you imagine?"_

 _His expression remained impassive, but he was listening, and she pressed on._

" _So what is_ your _sorry tale? How did your parents die? Was it very tragical?"_

 _His face registered his shock at her blunt effrontery, and his eyes widened by degrees. He attempted to make a response, now, but his lips were clearly ineffectual in forming the words._

" _Please don't be troubled by my question. You see you're_ here, _so forgive me, but your circumstances are rather a foregone conclusion." She attempted a wry smile, only to be met by his stricken eyes, and she blanched momentarily at the pain in them._

" _Well…" she paused. "At any rate, mine died of the fever, years and years ago. I was only three months old. Mrs Cadbury says I have the rare distinction of being one of the youngest ever orphans in her records."_

 _Anne's prattle began to lose momentum. She darted a glance around the room, and then concentrated her gaze on the rhythm her legs made, the soft thwack, thwack of shoe meeting wall._

 _There was a low, soft rumble. "Tom."_

 _Anne looked up, surprised._

" _I'm Tom. Tom Caruthers." His face was watchful and wary._

" _That's delightful!" Anne broke out into a relieved smile. "What a distinguished name! I certainly wouldn't imagine that one away. Thomas Caruthers, Esquire. That has a real ring to it."_

" _No," he looked a little affronted. "Just_ Tom _."_

" _Oh. Of course." Anne thought he was bypassing an obvious opportunity, but did not pursue it._

 _Tom Caruthers now frowned severely, looking down at his already large hands, which were still calloused and work roughened, Anne noted, though he had been at the orphanage for perhaps four weeks. He shifted uncomfortably in the hardbacked chair he had been seated in. He cleared his throat._

" _It's not tragic," he almost mumbled._

" _I beg your pardon?"_

 _He had been addressing his hands, but now he lifted those blue eyes to her. He already had some of the features of a man; the height, the makings of a strong, broad shouldered torso; the wavering voice, unsure or not if it wanted to leave boyhood behind. But what she saw, clearly, in those eyes now was the unmistakeable heartbreak of the lonely, frightened child._

" _My_ circumstances _are not_ tragic _ **.**_ _They are_ typical _ **.**_ _My father left us when I was little. My mother was sick for a long time, and then she died. No one else wanted me. So now I'm_ here _ **.**_ _"_

 _He didn't rail to the skies or remonstrate his Fate to the heavens. He admitted it with a weary, wretched resignation._

 _Anne swallowed carefully. She tried to not let these troubles travel with her. They were hard, heavy stones she emptied from her pockets. They were paper boats, launched on a current, floating gently away._

" _That's OK," her smile was wistful, and he looked caught by the huskiness that had replaced the usual chirpiness of her tone. "They didn't want_ me _, either."_

* * *

 _Matron came to them one early morning soon after, rousing all from their far-from-restful slumbers, demanding that they vacate their beds this instant, wash immediately, and begin on their chores even before they were to receive a whiff of their meagre breakfasts._

 _She was a woman whose appearance contradicted her personality; she looked all rounded jollity, with a plump, open face and air of brisk efficiency, and yet her sour expression and sharp tongue could lash and wound, with or without the birch stick that took up its threatening presence on the shelf inside the dormitory._

 _Mrs Cadbury came to check on them as they were in a flurry of sweeping and scrubbing floors, emptying chamber pots, and ridding every available surface of the grime that had taken up long residence. Her heightened color made her seem feverish, and the hair that she usually kept in tidy, if not exactly fashionable, style was in disarray. She brandished a telegram in her hand._

" _Children! Children!" she shrilled for their attention. "A very important man is coming to visit us today. Little ones need to be on best behaviour or there will be no supper for the rest of the week. Older children, it is the_ Inspector – _you will know full well what that means!"_

 _Tom, who had no idea at all what that meant, flashed a quick look to Anne from the other side of the room. He had begun to search in her the answers to his questions regarding the new world he was trying to navigate. She met his eyes and risked a quick, droll eyeroll._

" _Tom!" Mrs Cadbury demanded. "You will chop more firewood and organise a fire in every room. Take another of the boys with you. Anne Shirley – you must come with me."_

 _Anne scampered after her, her imagination alight with what her role in events would be. Mrs Cadbury did not slow her pace as she mounted the stairs, throwing the story over her shoulder._

" _Martha our girl is visiting her sick mother. Of_ course _she is! What in the world possessed me to take pity on her is beyond me, for now we are in such a pickle! Anne you will have to be serving girl today. The Inspector will take tea in my office after his tour of the asylum. Goodness only knows what we will give him! Cook is making something now. My only hope is that it is even edible!"_

 _Mrs Cadbury had reached her office, spartan as the rest of the building, although at least it was warm, and the handsome cabinet gleamed polished mahogany, proudly displaying its delicate contents._

 _Mrs Cadbury thrust a starched apron into Anne's hands. She looked down upon it for a startled moment, and then quickly put it on. She caught her reflection in the glass. She thought it might be the cleanest, whitest thing she had ever had near her person in her life._

" _Take the tea set out, the one with the roses, and arrange it on the low table. It is my own personal collection – if you so much as chip a single saucer I will have your head, Anne Shirley! Practice pouring with a little cold water first. When the Inspector comes, you will not speak unless spoken to. You will not give any opinions. You will be demure and respectful. Are we understood?"_

" _Yes, ma'am," Anne murmured, giving a neat little curtsy, already delighted to be cast in such a role._

" _Yes, well… I must make myself presentable now," she put a hand to her hair. "Do not leave this room!"_

 _Anne waited with mounting trepidation and excitement as she stood by the door, eventually hearing the faint greetings of the children chorused in welcome for their esteemed visitor; the steady commentary of Mrs Cadbury as she explained, in exacting detail, everything that opened and shut in the entire building; and the slow heavy tread of a man's shoes as they made their way up the wide, winding staircase towards her. How fantastical her imagination supposed he might look like! She had only ever seen him before from a long distance, and she had been much younger. Would he be straight out of Dickens, with a delightfully improbable name and a terrific handlebar moustache? Would he be amazingly awful; fat, balding and grotesque? Would he pose and pontificate, making himself secretly ridiculous?_

 _The reality was far more disappointing. Mrs Cadbury finally swept in, her color still high but, it appeared, for an entirely different reason, and a man, tall, but not overly tall, stood in the doorway, dressed not in foppish finery but in professional black, with a very small, neat moustache, and the tiny twitch of a smile._

" _You are most welcome, Sir," Anne dipped her head, offering a deep curtsy._

" _Yes, I am sure that I am," was his sardonic reply._

 _He sat in the most comfortable chair as indicated by Mrs Cadbury, stretching his legs out, looking around curiously. He had the self satisfied air of a man who was once moderately handsome in his youth and still rather believed himself so. On closer inspection the years had not been kind; there was a flabbiness to his middle which spoke of too many teas in too many offices; his eyes, two coals in a slightly sallow face, were glittering and cold; when Anne served his tea with a flourish he leant over, too close, and his breath told readily of his slow slide into dissipation._

" _Well, well…" he chuckled. "What do we have here?" he indicated to Anne with a nod of his head._

" _This here is one of our own orphans, Mr Flagstaff. Anne Shirley."_

" _Anne Shirley…" he repeated, stroking his chin. His glance roamed up and down, lingeringly._

" _Well, Mrs Cadbury, a likely looking girl for service, at any rate, and not much else I should think. The hair alone is quite the abomination. Make sure she can at least make her mark and know basic figures before you cast her out onto some unsuspecting household."_

 _He turned again to Anne, noting with interest the bright red spots that had appeared on her pale cheeks. "Work hard, girl, and mind yourself. I'm sure someone or other will eventually take you."_

 _Anne Shirley, who could do rather more than sign her name and who had taught Mrs Hammond's older brood to read, write and figure long division, could merely offer up a tremulous smile and another quick curtsy._

" _Yes, Sir. Thank you very much, Sir." She tried her level best not to rattle the tea cup in her hand._

* * *

"Do you think we will get to order _anytime_ soon?" Charlie Sloane grumbled, shaking his head and frowning at the empty tea cup before him, delicate rose leaf pattern gleaming mockingly, unsullied this half an hour by human lips.

"Maybe we need to try something not so _fashionable_ and not so close to your campus," Jane Andrews advised patiently. "It takes Di, Ruby and I a clear forty minutes just to get across town sometimes, you know."

"It takes me forty _five,"_ Fred Wright added, not quite so amiably as usual.

Charlie was less interested in the people already clustered around the two tables they had commandeered within his now _formerly_ favourite tea room, regardless of how long it had taken them to make the journey, than he was about those who were yet to arrive.

"Where _is_ Ruby, anyway?" he demanded.

Jane and Diana Barry exchanged a loaded look.

"Seeing one of her beaux," Diana explained. "I think it involves _letting him down gently_."

Charlie's scowl was most unimpressed. "The way that she plays with fellows, like a cat with a mouse – or _several_ mice – is simply _outrageous_ ," he huffed.

The fact that Ruby Gillis had not _played,_ tormented, stepped out with or otherwise shown the slightest interest in his own good self over the years was, surely, yet another indication of her extremely flawed character, no matter how attractive the outer shell.

"And what of the others, then?" Charlie's remaining patience, tenuous as that was, had nearly reached its limit. "What's the point of even meeting up if half of us sit around, _starving_ and mad with thirst, waiting for the other half to grace us with their presence?"

"Well, I am sure that Diana wouldn't let you starve, Charlie. She made a lovely pastry the other week that it was your misfortune to miss out on," Jane beamed at her friend.

Diana grinned back at Jane. "I was so excited to actually _start_ any actual cooking in my course after two solid weeks of just memorising French terms and measurements. I wouldn't have cared if I'd had to tackle _escargot!_ "

" _What?_ " Charlie grimaced.

"Just don't cross me, Charlie Sloane, and you won't have to find out."

Jane laughed merrily at Charlie's perturbed expression. Fred had been opening and closing his mouth, trying to find a space in the conversation for his own quiet interjection.

"It _was_ a very good pastry, Diana," he murmured to her earnestly, his face flushing.

Diana turned to him, seated to her right. She was well used to Fred's kind, shy praise of her. She took it almost as a given, actually, though she didn't want it to spoil her, and would hate to toy with him as Ruby seemed to do with everyone. However, she found herself surprised to feel the warmth come to her cheeks regardless.

"Thank you very much, Fred," she gave a pleased smile, which he returned tenfold, reddening even more.

Jane scanned the room, waving a hand at two women already laughing as they came through the doors.

"Look, Charlie, rest easy!" she placated. "There's Pris and Phil now. And you know better than anyone that Gil has lots to do as president – of _your_ year, mind you. He'll be here when he can."

Those seated at the table were too busy greeting the newest arrivals to properly appreciate Charlie's rather spectacular eye roll in response and dark mutterings of general foreboding.

Meanwhile Gilbert, hiding behind his new striped scarf, surveyed the merry group (Charlie being the obvious and unsurprising exception) through the wide front window, having deliberately waited for Priscilla and the irrepressible Phil to enter. He had run all the way from his Student Council meeting and had been relieved beyond belief to see the girls just ahead of him, running late themselves, and had slowed deliberately in order to let them go in before and so buy himself a few extra minutes. Not for the first time did he wonder if there were any young people _left_ in Avonlea, because most of them, fortuitously, were with him herein Kingsport. All their various purposes and paths had crossed, and although they wouldn't be here together forever, there was the sweet knowledge that their journeys, at least for a little while, would intersect in this grand old town. They were great friends, and although he was inundated with new ones, he really wanted to hold onto them all. Even Charlie… _mostly._

 _Friends._ There it was, that word again, loaded with meaning. Gilbert unwound his scarf and smiled down proudly at the colors, the scarlet and white of Redmond, and contemplated the first time he had worn it in _another_ new friend's presence...

" _Goodness! That makes a statement! It's positively Arthurian!" she had teased, knowing smile firmly in place._

" _Well yes, I do think it gives me the air of a Lancelot," he affirmed, grinning._

" _Rather more of a Sir Dagonet, I believe," came her coy reply. *_

" _Ouch, Anne! You wound me!" he moaned, laughing, and even clutched at his side, for emphasis._

Gilbert turned away momentarily, towards the street, raising his face to catch the pale afternoon rays. They could be so unexpectedly lovely, these late October days, but he hardly minded storm clouds either, now, and he often contemplated how a conversation in the rain a mere three weeks ago, with a girl who had forgotten her umbrella, had started off as a necessary penance, and had become an unexpected gift.

He turned back, took a breath, and went inside.

He was greeted enthusiastically, as he always was, took his seat on the other side of Fred, and gave his order to the waitress who had materialised at his elbow, missing the look of offended exasperation Charlie, having only _just_ received his own tea and cake, threw at him.

"So, what's news?" he smiled.

Fred, as he knew, was enjoying his business course, at a smaller, commercial college the other side of Kingsport, made necessary by the shock the previous year of the Wright farm nearly going under, due to genteel mismanagement and too many loans against it. Fred, surprising everyone, himself probably most of all, had taken the matter (meaning his extremely conservative parents) firmly in hand, insisted he be jointly responsible with his father for not only working the farm but running it as well, and that he himself would undertake the necessary formal qualifications to ensure such a circumstance never happened again.

Ruby was at the same institution as Fred, trying her hand at a short secretarial course, having tired of – for _her_ \- the tediousness of teaching. Priscilla had likewise given up the school in Carmody upon hearing that so many good chums appeared to be going to Redmond; Jane was the only one continuing to broaden young minds, at a small school on the outskirts of Kingsport, having moved back from the west whilst she waited for her older, richer beau to make up his mind; that she had made up _hers_ about _him_ was rather evident. Most surprising of all had been Diana; bemoaning the time they had all abandoned her to undertake their teacher training at Queens College three years ago, she had felt the narrowed parameters of her life keenly, and once emboldened by the knowledge that even Fred Wright would be in Kingsport for a time, had badgered her mother, and then enlisted the help of her Aunt Josephine Barry, to support her bid for freedom, even if it _had_ meant a French cooking course.

Gilbert was sure the conversation was entertaining; Phil, Priscilla's newfound friend whom they had all likewise been delighted to come to know, could be fairly relied upon for that. He made the appropriate nods and murmurs but he knew his mind was drifting off …

" _Well, the scarf is for the football team, Anne," he explained once their laughter had subsided._

" _Oh, well, are we captain of_ that _enterprise too?"_

" _Er, actually…"_

" _I_ know _you were made captain, Gilbert," she shook her head, her tone indulgent. "Let's just say your movements around Redmond are fairly_ _ **…**_ well documented _."_

 _He let out an aggrieved sigh. "The perils of being popular…"_

"Indeed," _her smile was rather tighter, and she plucked at a few stray blades of grass from under their newly regular meeting spot by the shade of an obliging oak, which they now, after a few tentative starts, headed to automatically after English class._

 _Gilbert surveyed her, his dark brows drawing together. "You must find it rather… trivial… things like football, considering we are actually meant to be devoting ourselves to the pursuit of knowledge and all sorts of_ much _higher purposes. And considering how hard we've all worked just to get here in the first place."_

 _It still surprised him, the parallels to their experiences he kept unearthing. Anne, who had also taken her own teacher's certificate in one year at a college on the mainland, having won her own prize for academic achievement, as had he; how she had also taught, then, for two years, dreaming and saving towards Redmond. She had been his shadow self._

 _She gave him a look he couldn't quite fathom, and then drew her knees up to her chest, hugging them to her._

" _Yes…" she smiled, softly, "how hard we've worked to get here."_

 _Gilbert swallowed carefully, wishing she would let him uncover more about her… She was a book he was trying to read, but he feared he had the wrong translation. He sensed parts of her so hidden and protected, whole chapters of her life that he might never come to know. Their friendship, fledgling though it still was, had gathered pace and importance in a way he was still trying to fathom. He wished he could express that, although he was coming to so enjoy – perhaps too much – their verbal jousts, the teasing, almost affectionate asides … that she didn't always have to be that way with him. He hoped… he didn't even know_ what _he hoped, except … he wanted to be more than that, to her._

 _In the heavy silence, he saw her transform. Her eyes refocussed, and she was back to being Anne._

" _Gilbert Blythe," her smile lit on him, "of course football is not_ trivial _ **.**_ _You have my hearty congratulations. Redmond, you know, will always have a football team… they may as well have someone so capable of leading them."_

 _He smiled and nodded, acknowledging her praise, not wanting to know why it made him feel strangely hollow._

"Gilbert!" he realised Charlie was speaking. "I say, _Gilbert!_ "

"Sorry, Charlie?" Gilbert surveyed him blankly.

He looked around at the interested faces, realising, yet again, that he had not a clue what was going on.

He groaned inwardly. _I've_ got _to stop_ doing _that._

"I'm just saying I thought you were taking Maisie Monroe to the football club fundraising dance?"

Gilbert blinked, snapped back well and truly to the present. _Unpleasantly._

"Yes… Yes, that's right. I am."

The groan had become an internal howl of frustration. Gilbert had indeed asked Maisie, a bubbly, beautiful co ed in his biology class, to the dance, in his very early weeks at Redmond. Something in him had been swayed by the obvious synchronicity everyone saw of the young man, new President of the Freshman Class, hero of the Arts Rush, in pairing with one of the prettiest and most popular girls in their year. It was a weak minded whim he almost instantly regretted, never more so than now. With the dance only two weeks away the knowledge of his upcoming escort duties no longer gave him any pleasure.

"And so does she know you've been seen in the company of a certain redhead _three_ weeks in a row now? Fair play, Gil, spare a few ladies for the rest of us!"

The Avonlea girls, well used to Charlie and his pompous pronouncements, merely rolled their eyes; Pris and Phil, certainly _not_ as used to Charlie and not really desiring to be, both pursed their lips, clearly affronted.

"What a special charm you _do_ share with we _ladies_ ," Phil noted dryly.

Her wit was certainly lost on Charlie, but it hardly mattered; the entire table was now fixated on Gilbert.

" _Redhead?"_ Fred asked curiously. This was news to _him_ , too.

"I challenge you, Charlie, to refer to my new _platonic_ friend from English class, Anne Shirley, by the _color_ of her _hair_ ," Gilbert scowled.

" _Anne Shirley?"_ Pris piped up, and she and Phil shared a look. "We _know_ her!"

"She's in the Debating Club with us. And Art History," Philippa explained. "Great fun and clever as they come."

"Well, clever or not, she's obviously fascinating. I called out to you a dozen times the other day and you were clearly _oblivious!_ " Charlie crowed.

Gilbert's countenance darkened considerably, and he wondered very much if he could make Charlie _oblivious._ He sighed deeply to himself. Of _course,_ despite choosing a secluded area of the smaller quad, under the protection of a very large oak tree, they had still been observed, and of _course_ it had to have been by Charlie. He was the Rachel Lynde of Redmond already.

"Gilbert, don't be like Ruby! It really isn't fair to be seeing two girls at the same time," Jane gently admonished, feeling she should be the one to say it, considering she was the only one of them seeing anyone seriously, even if he did happen to be in Winnipeg.

Gilbert, exasperated, tried to call on his much vaunted charm, which would be of better value at this moment than becoming defensive.

He pasted on a winning smile. "I wholeheartedly agree, Jane. That is why I am escorting _Maisie_ to the dance and innocently discussing _term papers,_ in the full view of the entire college population, with _Anne."_

Charlie snorted in derision. Fred raised his brows, questioningly. Jane rolled her eyes, well remembering, as Gilbert ought, the summer before Queens when he had indeed gone around with herself one day and Ruby the next, in clear violation of his current professed code of conduct.

Pris looked on in silent bemusement, always having thought Gilbert a darling but rather enjoying the spectacle of him being on the back foot for a change.

Phil, who had come to know the strikingly handsome, effortlessly charming and frustratingly brilliant Gilbert Blythe in Mathematics, let alone many of the social events around campus, was less concerned about _him_ in that moment than the girl they were actually discussing.

"You know, I've often thought of bringing Anne Shirley along to our catch ups," Phil mused aloud. "You'd all like her – she's a treasure. You were all so good in adopting _me_ and taking me under your wings, friendless creature that I was, that I am sure we could do the same for _her."_

"That we should all be as _friendless_ as you, Philippa Gordon!" Pris laughed.

Diana watched Gilbert take a long sip of his cold tea, and wasn't entirely convinced of his professed indifference.

They were neighbours at home, she and Gilbert, and she had been staring wistfully at his handsome features for half her life, so she thought perhaps she could get a fair reading of them now.

When Gilbert and his father had returned to Avonlea from Alberta, all those years ago, he was older and handsome and clever, and Diana Barry had swooned over Gilbert Blythe as much as the rest of them. He seemed to be very well disposed to being swooned over. He was not shy in his efforts with the young ladies, and there was a different girl on his arm every week … some of the girls here or mentioned at this very table, in fact. Though the rub was he had been so infuriatingly charming and good natured about it all that none of the young ladies could stay cross at him for very long, even once they had been inevitably replaced.

Diana Barry, despite perhaps having the best claim of all to his transitory affections, never quite found herself being one of those young ladies, though he was as friendly and flirtatious to her as to any of the others. She never received a kiss from him behind the schoolhouse, or an invitation to a dance, or found herself taking a long, secluded stroll with him down Lover's Lane. And if once she had been worried that his perceived lack of interest had been a slight, now she saw, more clearly, that perhaps it had been a compliment.

Now, she considered how everyone had known about the upcoming dance with Maisie Monroe. No one before now had known about this Anne Shirley. And might not have known for quite a while yet except for Charlie's big mouth. It made Diana wonder.

"You know, it's becoming a little difficult to meet in town now," she claimed suddenly. "It's busy and most of us have to travel. I was thinking from next week we could have our catch ups on a Sunday instead, back at Aunt Jo's rooms, where our landlady can chaperone us. We can take all the time we want. I can practise my French pastries – goodness knows I still need to. Phil and Pris you might as well invite your Anne Shirley when you next see her, or else everyone will meet her before I do. And Fred you must invite any of your new business chums as well. We'll make it a real meeting place!"

Attention was instantly and very neatly diverted away from Gilbert and his earnest talks with young ladies, redheaded or otherwise. In the next moment everyone was applauding the genius of Diana and clamouring to give their views on the arrangements, from the refreshments to the invitees.

Diana stole a glance at Gilbert, noting his wide, relieved grin. When his eyes met hers, he gave her a wink. _Naturally._

 **Chapter Notes**

" _ **Yeh're a likely-looking girl and hev a right smart way o' stepping."**_

 **(** _ **Anne of the Island**_ **Ch. 34)**

 ***Rather than Sir Lancelot, the brave, handsome hero of legend in the Knights of the Round Table, Sir Dagonet was King Arthur's court jester.**

 **Tennyson wrote his** _ **Idylls of the King**_ **(published between 1859 and 1885) detailing his version, in twelve narrative poems, of King Arthur, the knights, Guinevere and the rise and fall of his kingdom. Though we know, of course, that canon Anne probably much preferred his** _ **The**_ _ **Lady of Shalott**_ **.**

 _ **I appreciate you all suspending your disbelief in having half of Avonlea now here in Kingsport. The joys of writing an AU!**_


	4. Chapter 4 A Model Young Man

**Chapter Four**

 **A Model Young Man**

* * *

 _Gilbert could hear snatches of conversation with perfect clarity from his perch at the top of the stairs. They needn't have conferenced, cloistered away in the kitchen; even if his excellent hearing had failed him, his observational skills were certainly sharp enough to realise that Great Uncle Dave, all the way over from Four Winds, Uncle and Aunt Fletcher, Doctor Brown and mother and father didn't usually congregate together before church on a Sunday morning._

"… _certainly entitled to a second opinion… or a third for that matter… there is a decent fellow in Charlottetown who could see you…"_

"… _taken hold, but not irreversibly…"_

"… _clean air, that's what's needed. Regenerate the lungs …"_

" … _no question of not helping … family is family …"_

"… _someone will need to stay, and someone will need to go, I'm afraid. We can't get 'round that …"_

 _He had expected the summons; had dressed and tidied his hair, ready to present himself. He stood, poised as a sapling in the breeze; swaying back and forth, able in a moment to break away down the stairs when called. But it was taking ages and ages. One by one they slowly filed out … Doc Brown, Auntie and Uncle, and again, after an even longer period of time, Great Uncle Dave. And still he waited. All grew silent, but for the creak of the house in the early summer wind, and the grandfather clock marking its time like a dripping tap, and the sound of his breaths reverberating in his strong body._

 _There were footsteps, finally, and his father's voice, a little raspy. "Son?"_

 _He did not bound down the stairs, but took them steadily. His hands were thrust into his pockets. His father's kind eyes followed his approach, and when he reached the foot, he patted him on the shoulder, and kept his arm there as he was led into the kitchen._

 _His mother had been crying, he knew; her smile was too wide and his own hazel eyes stared back at him, regretful and red rimmed._

 _He took his seat, between his parents; the arm about his shoulder, still and sure, and the hand his mother now grasped, too tight. They presented their case to him, because he liked things that way; he liked to visualise the points laid out in front of him, neat and logical, like a spelling list for school. Cross one off and move on to the next._

 _He asked his own questions in his clear sighted, direct manner, assimilating the information quickly, looking, if not for solutions, at least for a path._

 _John Blythe thought he had never been prouder; such a bright, quick lad, accepting things so stoically, still only ten yet already being such a brave young man for his mother._

 _Adela Blythe thought he had never looked so heartbreakingly young; that his hair, the adorable curls of his father, would be caught by the prairie winds and she wouldn't be there to smooth them down; that he needed his first pair of proper long pants before he left; that she would ache for the hugs that by the time he returned he would believe himself too old for._

 _Gilbert thought, just for a guilty moment, amongst the cacophonous swirl of everything else in his head, that it was only the very start of summer, and that he was meant to go fishing with Fred and Charlie next Saturday._

* * *

"Well, Miss Anne Shirley, I've a bone to pick with you!" Philippa Gordon flashed, taking her now accustomed seat midway up the musty Art History lecture theatre.

Anne, having been working her way through her chapters on The High Renaissance with barely suppressed excitement, turned to Phil, smiling at her arch tone.

"I can't guarantee there's much flesh to pick over, Miss Gordon, but you are welcome to try."

"Yes, well, if I keep getting up at clearly insane hours, going over my study notes, and then needing to feed my overwrought brain with midnight feasting, maybe I'd have a little less _flesh_ myself," Phil grimaced comically. "But that is not the point of my discussion."

"No?"

"No. A particular young male freshman is."

"Now Phil, you can't squeeze anyone else onto your dance card next week," Anne offered indulgently. I _have_ warned you of this!"

Phil's smile was smug. "Will you be squeezing Gilbert Blythe onto _yours_?"

Phil was anticipating a reaction; even _she_ was startled by the swiftness of the way the pale complexion was overtaken by the vivid rose that accosted it.

Anne gave a little, forced titter. "I am growing to love your fanciful notions, Miss Gordon. I am sure our erstwhile leader of Freshman Class, football hero, Defender of the Faith, and so forth, will have much more to do besides scan the crowds looking for innocuous nobodies to waltz with."

Phil had to turn to flip through the pages of her own textbook in order to help hide her smile.

"Well, yes, Anne Shirley, that may well be, but what if he has a sudden pressing question about his English term paper?"

Phil now gave Anne the full complement of her self satisfied grin. Anne's grey eyes widened, and she composed herself with difficulty.

"He just happens to be in my Literature class, that's all," Anne made admirably smooth reply.

"He just happens to be in _my_ Mathematics, and I've been raving about him since the first _day_. Why didn't you tell us you knew him?"

"There was hardly anything to tell, Phil, unless you want a precis of his clearly annoying and inflammatory views on most English novelists. And we haven't even _gotten_ to any poets yet."

 _The lady doth protest_ _too much, methinks_ _1_ Phil smiled to herself. Anne was making a very careful effort now to arrange her papers in order, although her shuffling of them so haphazardly, Phil noted, was probably not the best way to do so.

"Well, my sweet, emphatic Anne, at any rate, if you are very good and promise to pass on your clearly superior notes on Michelangelo, I may inform you of a lovely invitation I've been deputised to give you."

Anne didn't have appropriate time to respond; a blonde head bobbed up beside them and shimmied in along the other side of Phil, just before their Professor entered and set himself up behind the lectern.

"Anne!" Priscilla leaned towards her, giving a very dramatic stage whisper. "What's all this about you and _Gilbert Blythe_?"

* * *

Gilbert had arranged to meet Maisie Monroe after his Mathematics lecture early the following week, in his attempt to pay any sort of court to the young lady he was accompanying to the first important Redmond dance of the year. He wished he could notify Charlie of his intentions so that he could come cast his overprominent eyes over the sight of he with the lovely blonde on his arm, not a care in the world, and report _that_ back to the masses instead. Gilbert fully intended to parade them both about the whole of Redmond. But he drew an invisible line when it came to lounging under any oak trees.

Firstly, however, he would have to survive Mathematics itself. Seated in the general proximity of Phil Gordon.

"Hello, Mr Blythe!" she greeted buoyantly, giving him her most engaging smile.

"Hello, Phil. How is everything with you?"

"Well as usual, Gilbert. And yourself?"

"Oh, top of the world," he smiled broadly.

"Yes, I may well imagine," her look was bland but her tone teasing, and she gave herself away further by an ironic arch of her dark brow. She settled herself in, looking about the slowly filling lecture theatre.

"I hardly thought I would make it in time, today," she mentioned airily. "I was almost held up after Art History."

And there it was. He had been waiting for it. Phil was as smart as she was attractive, and he knew she wouldn't miss an opportunity after the connection between he and her fellow Art History student had been made.

"Oh, really? Well, it's a fascinating subject. All that Art. And, you know, the history of it." He decided he wouldn't give an inch.

Phil bit back a smile, her warm brown eyes dancing at their game.

"And the _people_ involved in the discussing of the Art. So very clever! I can hardly keep up."

"I'm sure that's _far_ from the case, Phil," he offered dryly.

There was a pause. "And how are _you_ keeping up, Gilbert? It must be very difficult to keep abreast of all your many activities and responsibilities. All those different _subjects_. Mathematics. Biology. English… Do they all fade into one, after a time?"

Gilbert sighed to himself. Her allusion was obvious but effective.

"No, Phil. As I'm sure you're aware, it _is_ possible to keep each _subject_ quite _distinct_ , and to give each area its due."

Phil raised both eyebrows now, and gave a small smile, turning, her rich dark brown curls swaying, to wave to various friends as they entered.

Gilbert watched her covertly. Maisie hadn't been the only girl who had caught his eye those first heady weeks of college. There was real personality informing Phil's prettiness, however, that had made Gilbert like her from the start, and not just admire her. He enjoyed her banter; her ability to laugh at the world and herself; her flirtatious frivolity, masking an intelligent, determined core. She seemed to notice him in turn, making it clear she enjoyed his company, although she was hardly short on that score herself. Something in him back then had hesitated, however. He felt, inexplicably, that they had recognised themselves in each other, and found the connection a little too close for comfort. When Gilbert looked at Phil Gordon he couldn't help but see himself, reflected back at him.

He frowned now, wanting to try to make something very clear, ironically coded though it was.

"Phil…" he began with difficulty, surprised at his struggle for the words, "I want you to know that … despite appearances … despite even what you may have heard … that I _am_ attempting to treat each subject as carefully as I can." He fiddled absently with his pencil. "I have perhaps a little to learn from bad study habits in the past," at this he flushed faintly, "but I am mindful of not… well… of not _flunking out_."

His sheepish smile met her bemused one, but then Phil's look became contemplative, and her mask dropped. She stared at him for a long, uncomfortable minute.

"I hope so, Gilbert," she offered, kindly but firm. "I hope so."

* * *

Maisie was waiting promptly outside the lecture theatre, looking smart and modish and _collegiate_ , in Phil's way, and indeed the two women made polite greeting to one another, chatting of mutual acquaintances and the dance, before Phil flicked a final glance at him and was on her way.

Maisie turned up to him her stunning, symmetrical face, untouched by frown or blemish, her smile bright as her hair, and the open, easy way she regarded him quelled some of the foreboding that had been brewing in the wake of his conversation with Phil.

"Hello there, Gil."

"Hello there, Maisie." He held out an arm with a smile. "Shall we?"

She took it eagerly, leaning slightly into him, and they started to talk of the safe subjects they had grown comfortable with, as they moved away from the buildings and meandered through the grounds. They chatted easily, with a little humour back and forth; her views on everything from their end of term biology exam to how her family spent Christmas offered as calmly and mildly as if she was perusing her shopping list. It was quite refreshing to have a perfectly pleasant conversation that was not fraught with meaning, with sly, teasing innuendo or uneasy undercurrents. He was not on quicksand here; he was on firm ground, his footing sure. It was a delight and a relief. She made him remember why he had liked her.

And then, the little niggles. She must stop and chat to every person she knew along the route, and she knew a great many people, and those few he didn't know himself she took great and lengthy delight in introducing him to. She called him _Gil_ and he didn't know quite why it grated; except that only his closest friends called him Gil, or, he imagined, perhaps a future sweetheart swept up in his tender, all- consuming embrace. She talked at great length in description of her gown for the dance, specially made, and her details were so exacting, with her own budding scientist's eye, that he could picture it perfectly already, ruining any element of surprise, and wondered why she would now bother to wear it at all.

She looked at the world as he did; thoughtfully, mindfully, pragmatically. But he had been introduced to a little wonder and whimsy, and he found that he missed it.

She looked around her with the mind of a scientist, but someone else was making him see things, slowly, with the soul of a poet.

She made him stop, despite his obvious reluctance and numerous protests, in the small quad, amongst the tall oaks, and she called them by their Latin, when someone else had stared up and greeted them with Longfellow;

" _Thou ancient oak! Whose myriad leaves are loud_

 _With sounds of unintelligible speech…"_ 2

"Sit with me, Gil," Maisie invited, gently collapsing her skirts around her on the grass like the petals of a flower unfolding. It made his gut wrench, because it was so different from the image he carried around in his head of this place now, and another person in it.

"Oh, Maisie… I don't think so …" he tried to hold back a grimace, running an agitated hand through his hair. "I've kept you too long as it is."

She gave him a leading smile, head to one side, that he imagined she had offered many times before, with perfect results.

"Really, Gil? Are you sure you don't want to relax for a while?"

 _Relax?_ He didn't even want to _be_ here now. He had to stop himself from squirming like a child and then bolting at speed from the vicinity.

"I'm _sure,_ Maisie. Regretfully I need to finish up now. If you're ready I'll escort you back."

If his tone was too blunt her response didn't indicate it, and she extended a languid hand for him to help her up.

He did so, thinking that Charlie had _better_ have seen this, and turned around to observe a flash of red disappearing quickly around the corner, and knew, with a truly sinking heart, that, typically, if Charlie hadn't, someone else certainly had.

" _Perfect_ ," he muttered darkly to himself.

"Beg your pardon, Gil?"

"Oh, that it's just been perfect, today."

"Yes it has!" her smile was sunny and satisfied, and she linked her arm back through his.

* * *

 _On the wall of the otherwise spartan, nondescript waiting room of the sanitorium, there was mounted a large, handsomely framed map of The Dominion of Canada._

 _Gilbert had already memorised most of it, in the six weeks since their arrival in Alberta; tracing over the foreign sounding, far off names, some that had once been but provinces and cities to memorise for school, now become real places on the tongues of those who surrounded him; Manitoba; Yukon; Saskatchewan._

 _After a jarring, displaced few weeks, life was beginning to settle into some sort of pattern. Not the pattern of what would have been, had he been home; out from sun up to sun down, meandering the lush fields and the fragrant meadows; sitting by still ponds; up the trees of their orchard, consuming the sweetness of too many apples until they became a biting ache in his belly. This was a different existence entirely; walking, not galloping; moderating the yabber of his youthful enthusiasm for something hushed and newly thoughtful; allowed to break away during his father's morning and afternoon naps to explore the great vastness of the endless prairies. He would stand there, on the edge of it all, imagining he was actually seeing the sweep of the earth as it curved around the horizon; the great winds blasting him, making his curls stand on end._

 _It would be better once they moved out properly to the homestead, but for now there were only the dull corridors and room after room of patients; the coughing like an echo following him; attaching itself to him like a shadow._

 _Gilbert watched the doctors and staff with an awed fascination; they were not personable types to chuckle over your scrapes and sprains, but tall and officious, striding with confidence, their white coats flapping in their wake. He envied them their knowledge and their certainty in their opinions, and their secret language which he tried to decode; the small smile, the tight nod, the raised eyebrows, the disappointed frown._

 _After a few days of recovering from their long, interminable journey, he had stood with their new housekeeper and de facto guardian, watching them wheel his father down one of those long halls, to have the surgery to collapse one of his lungs, to 'rest' it. Gilbert had been stricken into speechlessness, not quite understanding the process, thinking that he might not see his father ever again, that he would die, here, away from everyone, and he hadn't said anything, hadn't said enough, hadn't said I love you, hadn't said goodbye. When his father was well enough to see him, days again later, Gilbert had launched himself heedlessly at the pale, thin form, his frightened tears falling, his pent up, half swallowed words gushing from him._

 _Now, things were calmer; he could be steady and settled; he could charm his housekeeper, the widowed Mrs Milligan, for an extra biscuit; he could write to his mother and Uncle Dave; he could explore outside and return and know that his father would be there, sitting up more comfortably, book in hand._

" _Hello, son," his father now greeted him, the gruff affection he had previously displayed having gentled; the touches, the hair tousles, more frequent. Gilbert had never spent so much time with his father in his life; there had always been the farm, there had always been something for him to do, pulling him away. But now there were long conversations and companionable silences, sitting by his bed, an easy back and forth. They were falling into a rhythm with one another, too._

" _Shall we do 'Treasure Island' again today, Dad?" Gilbert offered. They were rotating through their collection of books, Gilbert reading aloud, his father offering the occasional correction or interjection._

" _No, son," his father gave a smile, tapping the already worn tome that waited beside him. "I thought we'd begin on something meatier today."_

 _Gilbert angled his head, but he already knew the title; 'The Complete Works of William Shakespeare'. He grimaced a little, disappointed. "_ Really _, Dad?"_

" _What, the Bard himself not good enough for Gilbert Blythe?" his father chuckled, wheezing._

" _No… it's just that, well, it's all the same thing. Short fights and long speeches."_

 _This had his father in a near coughing fit of laughter. It took him several minutes and half a glass of water to have him composed again. A nurse looked around the door, her look disapproving but unsurprised._

" _We mustn't disturb the patient!" she warned._

" _Yes, ma'am," Gilbert apologised automatically, and turned back to his father._

" _Son, let me tell you, all the magic and mystery of the world is found in these plays. All the answers you'll ever need to anything. I'm no reader like your mother but even_ I _know that."_

 _Gilbert's look remained dubious. He watched as his father flicked through the pages to perhaps the worst one of all._

" _Why not start with your mother's favourite, then?"_

 _Gilbert's face must have registered his mild horror. He'd glanced through 'Romeo and Juliet' a few times already. Romeo was a complete sap. Tybalt was a hot headed prig. Mercutio's fight scene and death were good, but before then he had a whole page of some demented, incomprehensible speech about some Queen called Mab._

" _Girls_ like _this one, you know," his father gave a wink. "It might pay in the future to be familiar with some of it. They are impressed no end when you can quote it back to them."_

 _Gilbert very much doubted this. At any rate, the girls back home were hardly to be borne. They giggled the entire time and whispered to one another as he passed. They hid little gifts inside his desk. They dared one another to try to touch his hair when he bent over his work._

 _However, one of their first letters from his mother had contained a little note from Diana Barry, which, he acknowledged, had been rather good of her._

 _Something occurred then, to him._

" _Have_ you _ever quoted this to anyone, Dad?"_

 _John Blythe's look was a little smug; there was a definite twinkle in his eye._

" _Maybe. Maybe I have, at that."_

 _Later, when his father needed to rest again, Gilbert drifted out and down the corridor, to the waiting room and the map. His fingers reached to trace all the way from the Province of Alberta to the Province of Prince Edward Island, virtually from one side of the country to the other. The Island was a tiny blob in the ocean. Charlottetown was barely distinguishable. And he couldn't see Avonlea at all._

* * *

Gilbert could hardly contain himself. They were finally starting the Bard in English. They would be at it for five weeks, either side of the Christmas break, segueing into the sonnets in the new year.

Of course, he and Anne had covered much of this ground already, in their own private discussions, and they had been in somewhat anticlimactic agreement; that Shakespeare was an unrivalled genius, that the tragedies would always have the edge over the comedies; that the histories contained altogether too many _Henrys._

He waited for her now, impatiently, his restless fingers drumming the worn spine of the heavy _Complete Works_ that he had carted with him, not just from his rooms today, but all those years ago, to and from Alberta. He had needed to work like the devil to keep up with her on everything else, but on this, he was quietly confident.

Anne entered in the nick of time, flustered and red cheeked, not observing (purposefully ignoring?) the spot he had saved for her, diving in refuge actually _behind_ several fellow students, and as he waited patiently till she met his eyes, she gave him a glare as of Medusa turning men to stone.

 _So it was going to be like_ that, _then._

She was mad about Maisie. Obviously he understood this. He wasn't a complete idiot. Further, he thought he was coming to understand _her._ And so it wasn't about Maisie so much as it was about the betrayal inherent in Maisie having sat in their sacred spot.

He felt, with a real, knawing sense of disappointment, that he didn't quite have the heart now to tackle _Romeo and Juliet_ today; evidently neither did she. They both gave practised, perfunctory responses in discussion; Ed Sanderson had the floor for once and was clearly delighted.

They walked out quietly together, he subdued and she sullen, and down the stairs. Usually they would be laughing, amiably chatting already, trading quips, gathering under the trees.

They walked towards the smaller quad, but then she stopped, at the edge of it.

"Anne?" he questioned at her hesitation.

"You know, Gilbert, it's a busy time of year. I don't think so, today." Her response was crisp to say the least.

He let out a breath, turning to her.

"Anne, I'm sorry about Maisie. I won't pretend you didn't perhaps see me with her, or hear about it afterwards."

"Who you are seen with makes very little difference to me, Gilbert Blythe. And at any rate, it's hardly an unusual occurrence, considering you're taking her to the dance." Her tone had dropped temperature by several degrees, and now hovered in the direction of _icy._ It made him long for crisp.

He passed a hand through his hair. "Anne, Maisie is just a friend. She is no more important to me than any of my _other_ friends."

Her grey eyes were doleful on his, before her gaze fell back onto the copse of oaks.

There was a long pause. " _She is rich in beauty…"_ 3 Anne mused quietly, almost on a sigh.

Gilbert blinked, surprised. He knew that line. Heck, when it came to _this_ play, he knew almost every line.

He juggled his trusty Shakespeare tome in his hands, contemplating.

" _Be ruled by me, forget to think of her,"_ 4 he urged, softly.

Anne was truly startled at that, and turned to him with wide eyes. She stared up at him a long moment.

" _O, teach me how I should forget to think_ ," 5 she questioned, her voice a little husky, eyebrows raised, that quality he knew so well now sparking in her.

Gilbert smiled widely, then, and paced slowly, determinedly, away from her onto the grass, turning his dark head back to her, his own eyebrow quirking, issuing his silent challenge.

Anne followed reluctantly, refusing to smile. She sat with a huff on the grass, collapsing, he grinned to himself, with all the affronted delicacy of a bull in a china shop. She turned to him, hands folded demurely in her lap, one ironic eyebrow reaching skywards till it almost met her forehead, waiting.

Gilbert tried to muzzle his satisfaction. He was going a bit demented regarding girls talking in code to him this week, but there it was. If she wanted Shakespeare, then by all means, let her have Shakespeare.

" _It is my will, the which if thou respect_

 _Show a fair presence and put off these frowns,"_ 6 he warned.

Anne pursed her lips together, absolutely determined not to reward him with the smile he had demanded of her. Absolutely determined… and unable to stop.

She smiled in chagrin and rolled her eyes, shaking a frustrated head at herself as much as him.

 _That's more like it..._ Gilbert's heart gladdened considerably, and he thought over his next move.

" _What lady is that…"_ he peered at her as if from a distance. " _O' she doth teach the torches to burn bright!"_ 7

Anne gave an embarrassed laugh. " _You are a saucy boy!"_ 8

He chuckled, a little delighted, and thought that perhaps truer words had never been spoken. But then he put a hand to his chest, and claimed with mock sincerity,

"… _to say truth, Verona brags of him_

 _To be a virtuous and well govern'd youth."_ 9

This heralded a paroxysm of fake coughing from Anne of the _you must be joking_ variety. He waited out her theatrics with a smirk.

" _O' speak again, bright angel!"_ 10 he urged, when she was then overtaken by an _actual_ coughing fit.

She laughed genuinely, when her breath returned; a merry peal that seemed to ring and echo in the trees and reflected in the green within the grey of her eyes.

Anne surveyed him as he relaxed before her, stretched out, one hand propping up his long, lean body on the grass.

" _What man,"_ she questioned, _"art thou that thus bescreen'd in night_

 _So stumblest on my counsel?"_ 11

" _My name, dear saint,"_ Gilbert answered, _"is hateful to myself,_

 _Because it is an enemy to thee;_

 _Had I written it, I would tear the word."_ 12

Anne colored at that, taking it more seriously than the gentle jest he meant it as. She looked down at her hands. Gilbert feared their game had taken on a new meaning, and his pulse skittered. Had he just ruined everything?

Anne's voice was lower now as she replied, and the blush still stained her cheeks as she recited the words with care;

 _"In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond,_

 _And therefore thou mayst think –_ " 13

"Gil!" called a female voice from behind them, too close.

Anne and he had been facing each other and the trees, their backs to the path leading off the quad; their back to the world in every sense. But the world had come crashing in on them as it always seemed to; they both turned as one, startled from their iambic reverie, to see the polished, perfect blonde girl stepping smartly towards them.

"Gil!" Maisie smiled, her chirpy tone a little breathless. "Do you camp out at night here? It must be one of your favourite places!"

Gilbert leapt to his feet as if scalded.

"Maisie!"

"You'll ace the botany section of your biology paper at this rate, you spend so much time amongst the trees," she smiled knowingly at him, and if her pleasant tone had a certain arch to it he wasn't game to say.

Gilbert stared at her for a minute of gormless inaction, his mind riddled with the possibilities that would lead Maisie, with absolutely nothing drawing her to this section of the college, finding herself here, now, walking casually by, and didn't like any of them.

"Maisie… Ah, Maisie Monroe, may I introduce you to my friend and English classmate, Anne Shirley," he indicated to Anne behind him, and turned to see her standing, having hurriedly brushed herself down, and now exhibiting a small, welcoming smile, seemingly unruffled by the interruption. He envied her composure.

"Hello, Miss Shirley," Maisie nodded.

"Hello, Miss Monroe. It's very nice to meet you."

"And _you_ , Anne."

"You must be looking forward to the dance next week. I'm sure you have been very busy with all your preparations."

"Yes, indeed!" Maisie gave a merry laugh. "I should have known heading the dance committee would eat up so much of my time! But all for a good cause. The football team is, after all, the pride of Redmond."

"Yes, we all believe so."

"And it's freshman captain, too, obviously."

"Obviously." Anne smiled tightly. Maisie's clear blue eyes turned to catch Gilbert's color heighten.

"And thank you, Anne," she continued, "for your generous support. You and Priscilla Grant, as you know, we have stationed on the refreshments table. It was very good of you both. I don't know how we would get by without our casual volunteers."

"Not at all, Maisie."

Gilbert looked from one girl to another as if he had gone slightly mad. _What was happening?_ Was this conversation taking place, or would he now awaken to find he had fallen asleep on the grass, mumbling Shakespeare, after dreaming up this entire scenario as if in a fever?

"Well, I shall leave you both to your _studies_ ," Maisie smiled again, as if allowing them to continue after she had interrupted them was the bestowing of a generous reward. "I shall see you next week at any rate, Anne, and you _soon_ , Gil."

He _had not_ dreamed Maisie's hand on his upper arm just now, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"Yes, of course…" he found his voice. "Goodbye, Maisie."

"Goodbye, Maisie," Anne echoed.

"Bye for now!" another flash of a smile and then she was gone; a bright bowerbird, flitting away as quickly as she had come.

Gilbert turned back slowly to Anne. He had been slightly trepidatious about the two women meeting, and was relieved it had all gone so well. At least, he _thought_ it had. He wasn't entirely sure of _anything_ anymore.

Anne had bent over to collect her books, still loose, and her satchel. Gilbert tried desperately to collect his wits.

"Anne…?" he knew she had been on the cusp of quoting (saying?) something important. It would come to him in a minute. But…

"Anne! You're not leaving?"

The admirable composure he had noted, the smile as she shared surprising pleasantries with Maisie, seemed to have fled her. She was red and flustered, and quietly muttering to herself. He wasn't sure, but it sounded very much like _O' serpent heart, hid with a flowering face._ 14

No, this was actually _not_ going so well.

" _Wilt thou be gone?"_ 15 he tried to inject a little humour. It was not to be the correct approach.

Anne's head shot up at that, her red hair a firestorm about her now furiously red face. She seemed to be incapable of speaking at that moment. But then, something extraordinary; she stood taller, her expression became composed, and then she gave a wide, starry smile.

"I must be off too, _Gil_ ," she tinkled, and the brief imitation was uncomfortably uncanny.

Gilbert gave a scowl. Her use of his name in such a way unsettled him. "Anne, you're being ridiculous!"

"And _you_ , Mr Blythe, are being naïve!"

"And how is _that,_ pray tell?" his hands went to his hips.

Anne looked about them, suddenly more mindful than he of their very public forum for this best-in-private discussion. She lowered her tone and her own defensive stance.

"Gilbert, I _did_ see you with Maisie here the other afternoon. I was coming back from the library."

Gilbert dropped his hands and thrust them into his pockets.

"As I said Anne, I was only walking with Maisie. I invited her to the dance, as you know, long before we became friends. I – "

"Yes, Gilbert, I appreciate that fact. You escorting Maisie doesn't have any bearing on our friendship. At least, that is, not for me…" she suddenly wavered.

"Anne, it _does not_ for me, either," he replied with some force. "Please believe that!"

The look in her eyes nearly undid him. She nodded and cleared her throat.

"Well, then, I… that is, the difficulty is you insist that Maisie is a friend only, but have you asked yourself is she truly feels the same way?"

Anne saw his hazel eyes narrow.

"Anne…" he protested.

"Why did she want to stop _here,_ in this _particular_ spot, out of all of Redmond?" Anne sighed, exasperated. "Why did she just _happen_ to pass by today? There's nothing for her here this end of campus. Except for _you._ "

Gilbert's dark brows knotted together, remembering his own such thoughts.

" _You're_ the one studying biology, Gilbert. Even _I_ understand the basics of what they say about animal behaviour. And about _marking territory._ "

Gilbert's spine stiffened. "I don't care what Maisie may or may not try to achieve with her little diversions, Anne. We won't let it affect us."

"Gilbert," Anne shook her head, her voice unsteady. "It already _has_."

He took an intake of breath at that, his face thin lipped. Anne glanced around at the grass, the trees, and finally to him.

" _Enough; no more:"_ she claimed, and her grey eyes smoked with emotion. " _Tis not so sweet as it was before."_ 16

Gilbert watched her stalk past him and join the throng of students heading along the path and away.

He considered bashing his head against on oak in sheer frustration; he was rather spoilt for choice of them.

" _Oh, I am fortune's fool!_ " 17 he muttered to himself through gritted teeth; but he already knew, deep down, that _fortune_ had very little to do with it.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

" _ **Fred Wright has a fine farm and he is a model young man." (Anne of the Island Ch. 28)**_

1 _Hamlet_ by William Shakespeare (Act 3 Sc 2)

2 _from 'Eliot's Oak'_ by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)

3, 4, 5 _Romeo and Juliet_ by William Shakespeare (Act 1 Sc 2)

6, 7, 8, 9 _Romeo and Juliet_ (Act 1 Sc 5)

10, 11, 12, 13 _Romeo and Juliet_ (Act 2 Sc 2)

14 _Romeo and Juliet_ (Act 3 Sc 2)

15 _Romeo and Juliet_ (Act 3 Sc 5)

16 _Twelfth Night_ by William Shakespeare (Act 1 Sc 1)

17 _Romeo and Juliet_ (Act 3 Sc 2)


	5. Chapter 5 Duet of Brook and Wind

**Thank you to the wonderful writers and readers here - including very generous Guests - who have thrilled me with your comments and your follows.**

 **You have helped to push this story - and me - along x**

 **With apologies for this very long chapter...**

* * *

 **Chapter Five Duet of Brook and Wind**

* * *

" _Anne – do you_ really _think this is a good idea?" Tom ventured anxiously, peering from beneath an oversized hat placed jauntily, in Anne's opinion, over one eye, even if it lacked the fabulous plume extending upwards necessary to give it an air of real authentication._

 _His question was a valid one, on several fronts; Anne Shirley's ideas, invariably announced as good and exciting, were also more than prone to having disastrous consequences, thereby somewhat calling into question the presumption of them being good ideas in the first place. There had been the enacting of several of 'Grimm's Fairy Tales' for the children at bedtime, including the unfortunate incident after 'Hansel and Gretel' whereby a small party had been caught trying to requisition a loaf of bread from Cook's larder, all the better to leave their own trail of breadcrumbs…_

 _There had been Tom as Gulliver, rendered helpless by the citizenry of Lilliput by the tying of him to the bed…_

 _Perhaps most unfortunate of all - and on bitter reflection something even Anne had to acknowledge as having been somewhat lacking in forethought – had seen Tom gallop apace into the dormitory as the headless horseman, in pursuit of the hapless Ichabod Crane, complete with coat up over his ears and hat squashed down upon his head, all the better to obscure his face and give the impression, indeed, of general headlessness… the screams resulting from this particular event having brought all the scanty numbered staff of the orphanage running in shock to gather witness to the tears and mayhem, and ended with both Tom and Anne unceremoniously hauled out by Matron to feel the furious, swift swish of her birch rod._

 _Now, though, Anne tried to reassure her reluctant actor._

" _Tom – you've been desperate to be d'Artagnan for ages! Mrs Cadbury said if you can keep the noise down and not be overly dramatic with your sword fighting she will allow it this once."_

 _Tom, in truth, didn't much care for the limelight on any occasion, whether as a musketeer or no; like his participation in all their literary misadventures these past few months, and much else besides, he did it to please Anne._

 _Mrs Cadbury kept her stern eye on proceedings; she did not abide frivolity in any form, save this one; it was a neat means to an end, for after ten or so minutes of each evening, whereby Anne with her helpful foot soldier held her adoring audience in thrall, she had the satisfaction of seeing even the most recalcitrant charge asleep almost immediately, and the withdrawing of this audience privilege was a powerful motivation if sleep happened to be elusive._

 _To Anne's characteristically dramatic narration, Tom entered the fray, paper sword aloft, and swashed and buckled with appropriate dash and daring. Occasionally Mrs Cadbury was noted as putting a hand to her mouth in what one supposed was mild, affronted disapproval; it would be rather too much to hope she did so to hide a smile._

* * *

 _April came, and with it a change in the air; not so much of a relief from the persistent cold and the chilblains that always accompanied it; or the ever present hunger, gnawing its long fingers at little stomachs from the inside; or even the general pervasive sense of futility that seemed to cling to the walls. Anne sensed it in a shift; of time marching ever onwards, and they, stuck and stagnant; prisoners in the tower, under some strange spell of enchantment._

 _Tom had retreated to a corner again, soon after morning lessons. It meant, Anne knew, that he was having a bad day of it._

 _She walked up determinedly, as she had that first time just over four months ago, and hopped again on the windowsill. This time she knew not to chatter, and so she waited._

 _He had been whittling something that he had hastily shoved in his pocket. He chopped the wood for the entire orphanage now, and several other households down the street, in return for small favours; a book, some boiled sweets for the smaller children, a new pencil for Anne. His little ready supply of wood afforded him the opportunity to put it to use; as the birthday of another child passed, not in rejoicing as some might see it, but of another despairing year without a family, there would appear, by their thin pillow, a little wooden figure; a rabbit or a dog, or occasionally something even more fanciful, such as a heart or a flower, or one ambitious time, a knight holding his shield._

 _Tom stood and stubbed his toe on the floor, his sandy brows drawn together, his throat working to push the words back down, but they always seemed to escape from him, unbidden, when he was with her._

" _It's her birthday, today," he admitted, gruffly. There was a pause. "My mother's."_

 _Anne's grey eyes went to him, full of understanding and shared sorrow. "I'm sorry, Tom."_

 _He gave a short, sharp laugh, pained and hurting. "That's if she even gets a birthday now. Considering that she's dead."_

" _Of course she does," Anne determined, and then, more gamely, "would you tell me about her?"_

 _Tom looked at Anne, dubious._

" _You have memories of her, and talking about them will help keep them strong and secure. I don't have memories of my parents, and so my imagination fills in the gaps, but it's not the same, and my image of them keeps shifting and moving, so that it's hazy, like fog. But_ your _memories are clear."_

 _His throat made much movement at that. "Sometimes too clear."_

 _Anne hopped off the windowsill and sank down to the floor, and Tom moved to sit next to her, under the window, against the wall._

" _Do you have your mother's hair?" Anne finally prompted. She was, rather understandably, caught up in matters of hair color._

" _How did you guess that?"_

" _Well, now, that is the very_ nature _of a_ guess _," she grinned, and he rolled his eyes._

" _Yes, both of us the same color, this sort of yellowy gold, but mine is coarse; hers was long and straight and fine."_

 _Anne nodded._

 _She used to… braid it, and let it hang over one shoulder. Until she was really sick… and then I tried to do it myself… but it got very matted…" his voice wavered. "She had consumption, you know."_

 _There was hardly any comfort that could be offered in response to that, but Anne took his hand and squeezed it, regardless._

" _She had a good laugh," he continued. "Not a fake one, but a real belly laugh. A bit like yours, only you tend to squeal too much." He gave a sidelong glance at her, his mouth quirking._

 _Anne grimaced good naturedly._

" _And she was very smart. She liked to read. I tried to read to her, a little, but the few books we had left were too hard. I'd missed quite a bit of school, looking after her. And I was no scholar to begin with."_

" _You're_ very _smart, Tom!" Anne interrupted, indignant. "You just need to … well …"_

"Apply _myself?" he answered wryly. He had heard that particular line of argument from her before._

" _Learning is important, Tom. I think… I think… it's the only way either of us will get out of here."_

 _Now her own throat felt parched and prickly, not wanting to admit to the reality of the words. With each week, another opportunity passed, another hope faded, drifting away like curls of smoke on the wind._

 _Tom snorted. "Maybe it will be for you, Anne. I'm halfway to thirteen. I know where my door out of here leads to. Straight down the road to the nearest factory."_

 _Anne shook her head vehemently. "_ No _, Tom! You're so much better than that! You must aim for an apprenticeship at least. With a woodworker, perhaps, or..."_

" _And what will_ you _aim for, Anne?" he turned to her, grief making his words unusually harsh. "A scullery maid? Mistress of the Chamber Pots?"_

" _No!" she flared. "I'd run away first!"_

 _He paused at the sight of the hot tears threatening her newly flushed cheeks. He turned his own face away, drawing his knees up and burying himself there. He could just about manage his own wretchedness; he couldn't cope seeing hers as well._

 _There were long moments of quick breaths, battling for control._

" _Not without me, you won't," he finally offered, firmly, his voice still muffled._

 _Anne surveyed him questioningly. He raised his head to meet her eyes._

" _Run away," Tom clarified. "You won't be leaving here without me. You wouldn't last five minutes."_

 _She gave him a wide smile at that; teary and tremulous, but still the smile he always waited for her to give him, to turn his world up the right way again._

" _That's just as well, then," Anne answered. "'All for one and one for all,' you know."_ *

 _He smiled back and nodded; a silent vow._

" _And you'd need someone to read the street signs for you out in the big world," Anne continued, unable to restrain herself. "Your spelling_ is _fairly atrocious."_

 _She leapt up and dived away, laughing, to avoid his long limbs as he lunged at her._

* * *

Anne stood on the step of the attractive building the other side of Kingsport, lilies in her mildly shaking hands, in her second best skirt and her very best cream blouse, pausing to control her shallow, nervous breaths.

She would be meeting all manner of new people today; all at once, without the natural ebb and flow of the first weeks at Redmond when everyone else was new too and it was nothing in the world to introduce yourself and begin to immediately chat away with perfect strangers. These people here today already knew each other; had indeed grown up together, were their own little merry band of friends.

They were _Gilbert Blythe's_ friends.

That particular fact shouldn't matter to her any more than anything else pertaining to him should matter, but it did, rather too much, in a way that both buoyed her and caused her confidence to plummet to the bottom of the ocean like an anchor dropped and attaching itself to the sea bed. Likewise, that's what Gilbert Blythe himself seemed to do to her lately; would that she could control who she was with him. Sometimes he encouraged her to float as if she were one with the waves; sometimes she fought to cling to safety in a stormy sea, as Viola did; sometimes she despaired so, as if Ophelia, that she might at any moment sink and drown in the depths.

Anne frowned now, annoyed with herself. She would _not_ let thoughts of Gilbert Blythe crowd her today.

Instead, she stood on the step, an hour early, hoping _that_ fact in itself was not be a mad, impertinent folly, but wanting in some way to meet and thank the girl kind enough to give a stranger such an invitation, and hoping to have a few quiet moments to talk with her hostess before the hordes descended.

Anne took a breath. She knocked.

The door was opened and a vision of true loveliness peered at her; a dark haired goddess of her own dreams and imaginings, with beguiling dark eyes, an alabaster brow, truly raven hair and a gentle, dimpled smile. That smile widened even more as she noted the young lady on her own doorstep; the hair, the eyes, the pale, wondering expression had been so detailed to her by several sources that her identity was unmistakable.

"Miss Anne Shirley! I feel I know you already, I've heard so much about you!"

Anne's mouth opened in surprise, but then she closed it, coloring, and dropped a quick, neat curtsy, overcome in the moment.

"Miss Diana Barry. It is lovely to meet you. I am truly honoured and humbled by your kind invitation today."

Diana's eyes twinkled at the unexpected effusiveness of Anne Shirley's greeting, and clutched her hands – once they had offered up their little posy of lilies – grasping tightly, before ushering her inside.

"Here, Miss Shirley, let me take your coat. We can place it on the stand and – oh! I didn't say the wrong time, did I?" Diana Barry suddenly stilled in panic.

"No indeed, Miss Barry. Please forgive the intrusion. I'm an hour early. I just wanted the opportunity to chat with you before…"

"The plum puffs!" Diana interrupted with an agonised yelp, dashing away from Anne and into the house. Anne stood by the door, flummoxed, and then followed tentatively, taking in the rich, feminine furnishings – the paintings, the heavy brocade drapes, the mantelpiece groaning with beautifully framed photographs – following Diana Barry's furious muttering – and the smell of slightly burnt food – towards the kitchen.

Anne stuck her head around the corner.

" _Ruined_!" Diana all but wailed, throwing down her tea towel in disgust.

"Oh, Diana - Miss Barry - I'm so sorry if I…"

"Don't worry, Anne," Diana shook her head sorrowfully. "I've ruined everything else anyway. I rushed and got all the measurements wrong. I forgot about translating from French. Even with the plum puffs I'm not sure if I put salt or sugar in them, I was so distracted…" Diana moved to deposit the offending tray on the bench. "I don't know why I thought I could do this on my own. Jane isn't here yet – she's delayed in coming back from halfway to Winnipeg, seeing her beau. Ruby's been hopeless, fussing upstairs in her room because Fred is bringing along two friends from college. Oh, no – _Fred!_ He'll be so embarrassed in front of his friends and I'll just be mortified and Aunt Jo will hear I can't even boil an egg and send me back home!"

Anne's grey eyes widened. She could be staring back at her own good self, after countless culinary catastrophes. Only she was fairly certain she wouldn't have looked nearly so lovely, even with being so very distracted.

Anne took a breath, walking into the kitchen. "We will make an absolute success of this afternoon, Diana Barry! I promise you. I'm… I'm very happy to help you, though you must pardon my own decidedly limited culinary expertise. You worry about boiling eggs – I would worry about boiling the water properly in the first place, I am so very hopeless! Do you have anything left to serve, or anything you think we might make quickly?"

Those big dark eyes regarded Anne, a little amazed. "You would _help_ me? Anne, I... you're my guest! It wouldn't be proper!"

"Anne Shirley and the word _proper_ are not always very well acquainted, Diana. I would love to help you." Anne went to take Diana's hands impulsively in her own, as she herself had done. "Let's make this afternoon entirely wonderful!"

Diana Barry found herself nodding, dumbfounded, a lovely, agog smile on her face.

"Right, then," Anne determined firmly, looking around the bright, orderly kitchen. "What do you say to scones, Diana? They are about the only creations that behave themselves for me. Would you have everything we need?"

"Yes, of course…" Diana wavered, "but I promised everyone _French_ delicacies, Anne…"

"Never mind that. They will just have to be glad with what they're given. You can announce you saved the fancy French cuisine for another time. We could have scones and sandwiches, if that pleases you. Now… where is the flour?"

Diana stared at her rescuing, red haired angel for all of half a minute before dashing about the kitchen collecting ingredients. Together they worked quickly and companionably, attempting a little chatter as they went.

"Everyone just raves about you, Anne Shirley," Diana grinned as they saw the first generous batch of scones into the oven and worked the dough for the second. "And I can see why! Pris and Phil – well, I only met Phil recently, but I've known Pris a little, for when she was schoolteacher over at Carmody, nearby to our village, and Jane and Ruby met her at Queens. They both said you were jolly and extremely clever!"

Anne laughed. "I think I will believe myself cleverer still if I don't ruin these scones," she rolled her eyes, trying to keep the flour away from the frilly cuffs of her blouse.

"I thought you might be a little intimidating," Diana shook her head, as if still trying to get the measure of the girl beside her. "And Gilbert said – "

At the mention of his name, both girls paused. Anne reddened but affected as if she hadn't; Diana noted her blush but didn't draw attention to it.

"That is, ah…" Diana hesitated.

"It was probably something about my hair…" Anne groaned, giving a little smile of chagrin.

"No…" Diana shook her head, innocently. "It's striking and lovely, of course, but… well, he _did_ mention you were the most intelligent girl he'd met at Redmond. Not in _Phil's_ hearing, mind you," Diana's own smile was a little sly.

Anne further reddened dramatically, not quite knowing how to respond to the compliment, and truly not trusting herself on the subject of Mr Blythe, regardless. She instead tried a diversion.

"Phil tells me you are here doing a French cooking course. How marvellous of you! Are you enjoying it?"

" _Mostly,"_ it was now Diana's turn to blush faintly, "and despite appearances I _am_ getting along with it fairly well. The other girls are quite serious about it, though, and some are quite competitive, which I didn't really expect. I suppose that… well, I thought it might be more fun, just a bunch of girls chummy together… I was so envious of everyone going off to teacher's college years ago – they were seeing so much more of life than I was. I guess I felt a little left behind."

Diana bit her lip, thinking that maybe she had said too much, and here was Anne Shirley, a virtual stranger just arrived on her doorstep. But Anne only gave her a nod and a lovely smile, her grey eyes large in her delicate face, her look a little wistful.

"I understand, Diana. Perhaps more than you know. It's like Beth in _Little Women_ , isn't it? I always cry when she says _"I'm not like the rest of you. I never made any plans about what I'd do when I grew up… I couldn't seem to imagine myself anything…"_ **

Diana was nodding furiously, and was so astonished she very nearly dropped her rolling pin.

"That's _it_! That's it exactly, Anne! And you have just quoted my favourite book in all the world!"

The two young women laughed, amazed, together.

"It's wonderful, isn't it? I so adore Jo. And don't you just love Laurie to pieces?" Anne gushed.

Diana nodded again. She had rather a soft spot for shy, quiet, mannerly Professor Bhaer, truth be known, but wasn't going to interfere with the lovely moment by confessing so.

They refocussed on seeing off the second batch of scones, and then considered the sandwiches.

"Right, Diana," Anne offered in full schoolmarm mode. "I'll do the cream and jam and start on the sandwiches. _You_ need to go upstairs to freshen yourself – it won't do at all to have a harried hostess; you must be calm and radiant. Tell your friend Ruby to come down and she can arrange the furniture and flowers in the sitting room."

"Yes, Miss Shirley!" Diana laughed, very pleased and relieved to be thus instructed.

They both turned at a door slamming, and then heard a loud clatter, and there was a girl lugging her valise through the doorway, apologising as she went and pausing to gawp at the sight in the kitchen before her.

"So sorry, to be late, Diana, but the train was delayed…." Her voice trailed off and she looked from Diana to Anne in clear surprise. "Ah… Harry sends his love. I picked up a nice tin of biscuits on the way…" her mouth now curved into a small smile, and it rather transformed her homely features. "You _have_ to be Anne Shirley," she nodded at Anne. "You're obviously having a baptism of fire today."

Anne was introduced to Jane Andrews, and the girls exchanged greetings – both rather liking one another on sight – and then Diana was dispatched to change and Jane was dispatched to fetch Ruby, with a promise to come down and attend to the beating of the cream. Anne found herself orchestrating the sandwiches, marshalling whatever ingredients came to mind, and was furiously cutting cucumbers when there was a definite rap on the front door.

Anne looked about wildly, but she was alone downstairs. A glance at the grandfather clock informed her this was yet another early arrival. Goodness, if this was what being a hostess was about – the mad whirl of activity, the constant interruptions – it would drive her fairly demented. She called out tentatively but received no response. Letting out an impatient breath she rushed to answer the door herself.

Gilbert Blythe stood before her wearing a smart suit, a ready smile and holding a beautiful bouquet of peonies. At the sight of her his hazel eyes grew wide.

"Anne!"

"Gilbert!"

To say he was astonished to see Anne Shirley on Diana Barry's doorstep, cutting knife in hand and a dust of flour arraying her cheek, would be one of the greatest of understatements. He had been in two minds about whether to call for her, to accompany her here, but they had parted on such uncertain terms, and he didn't rightly know whether she would slam the door in his face in further Maisie-fuelled indignation. He had come himself, slightly early, in order to try to thank Diana properly for today, and for drawing Anne into their circle in a way that was much more natural – and far less subject to wagging tongues - than if he had contrived to invite her himself. His sharp eyes readily assessed, however, that Anne had been drawn into today's events more thoroughly than even he could have imagined, and his eyes roamed her up and down, before he remembered himself and settled again on her beautifully flushed face.

"I thought that I…" Gilbert began.

"I decided that I…" Anne interrupted.

They both halted, chuckling nervously. Gilbert cheekily commented upon the knife in her hand and whether his flowers were an acceptable enough offering to permit him entry, Anne looking down aghast at the tool she had unwittingly brandished at him. Both were then saved, mercifully, by their returned hostess, who appeared behind Anne at the door, accepting Gilbert's bouquet graciously, with a wide, knowing smile for him.

"Gilbert!" Diana welcomed warmly. "This is perfect! You can help Ruby with the furniture."

"Furniture?" his brow furrowed.

"Indeed, Mr Blythe!" Anne had recovered her voice and evidently also her nerve. " _Go and make yourself useful, since you are too big to be ornamental,"_ ***she shot at him with a smile, a mite saucily.

Anne caught Diana's eye and the two girls collapsed in giggles right there in front of him.

Gilbert had long ago given up on trying to decipher the Secret Language of Women. That Diana and Anne Shirley should share it themselves, so instantaneously, shouldn't perhaps have surprised him. He looked from one to the other, mouth open, and tried to make himself appear bemused rather than completely bewildered.

Soon enough the clock struck three; by some minor miracle they all stood there, the four girls and Gilbert, surveying their joint handiwork; the sitting room with the roaring fire and the thoughtfully arranged furniture; the table in the centre laden with the good china, upon which delicate sandwiches and still steaming scones beckoned, accompanied by jam, cream and a generous plate of biscuits; and the two vases of flowers overflowing with their careful displays. They could not help their delighted, relieved grins.

Diana, a vision in dark blue with a single one of Anne's lilies in her hair, added by the guest herself, grabbed at Anne's hand and squeezed it tightly.

"Thank you, everyone," Diana sighed to the room, and adding at a whisper, "thank you, Anne."

They all prepared to take their seats to await the others; a hand at Anne's elbow stopped her, and she turned to see Gilbert, a soft smile on his face, brandishing a handkerchief which he gently, and deftly, touched to her cheek.

"The scones," he explained, with an indescribable look that darkened his hazel eyes.

* * *

Later, Anne surveyed the room, and thought, though she had precious little experience of such gatherings, that their party of ten had been as delighted by simple fare and fine conversation as by anything they may have found in a quaint Kingsport tea room. Her grey eyes lit on the acquaintances of the afternoon, new and known, with undisguised pleasure, and the bloom that touched her cheeks and the intriguing secret thoughts behind the slight smile on her lips were noted by several of the gentlemen present, when they were not otherwise engaged in admiring the fair charms of Ruby Gillis, lively and coquettish, or the gentle dark beauty of Diana herself.

Anne took great note of Diana now, opposite her in the semi circle made by the chairs fanned out around the low table of the very depleted array of refreshments, in her element conversing with Fred Wright and his friends, the three men very keen to find everything about the afternoon quite delightful. Mr Wright she understood to be a particular friend of Gilbert's, which most interested her; on the surface he would seem his polar opposite; shy and almost blushing where Gilbert was confident and gregarious; courtly in his manner as a vivid contrast to Gilbert's cockiness; and his looks, though perfectly pleasing, were certainly on the side of unassuming. Anne couldn't fault his quiet attentions to her new friend, however; Diana had only to mildly lament that the fire needed restocking or that some other such service needed to be rendered for him to leap up to oblige happily, every time.

Jane Andrews, Anne was quick to note, was clever and thoughtful, with a quiet, wry humour; seated next to the fun, lighthearted Priscilla they both merrily reminisced about their days at Queens College, and Jane asked Anne many questions about her own teaching degree and career thus far, and her plans after her BA. On the other side of Diana and Fred sat Ruby, easily commandeering the attention of Fred's two friends with her stunning blonde beauty and infectious laugh; her lengthy preparations upstairs undoubtedly paying dividends in their patently admiring and rather awestruck expressions.

Anne had found herself by the fire, with Gilbert on the one side and, rather less fortunately, Charlie Sloane on the other. With every intriguing question or amusing aside that Gilbert attempted to pose, Mr Sloane was there to counteract it with an uninspired, if ultimately well meaning, anecdote of his own. Charlie seemed to be rather desperate to please but had the unfortunate knack of rarely doing so. He also appeared to be, despite a professed longstanding friendship, in some sort of unacknowledged rivalry with Gilbert. Anne felt herself rather caught in the crossfire of their attempts to gain her attention, and on her periphery she could see Gilbert's dark disapproval when talk turned to next week's football fundraising dance, his handsome features morphing into barely suppressed fury when Charlie blurted out, as Gilbert would be engaged on the night with one Miss Monroe, might Miss Shirley be pleased to accompany _him_ instead?

Anne stilled. This was her first invitation from any man to accompany him to a dance, ever, and she bitterly lamented the lack of romance involved and the general backhanded nature of the offer. Not to mention the very public forum for such a discussion. She looked at Charlie, his mouth smiling innocuously, his very prominent eyes widening more with each moment, in obvious anticipation of a favourable reply. She dare not glance at Gilbert.

She cleared her throat. Anne kept her voice level and her eyes determinedly trained on Charlie Sloane, aware that there were more than a few interested individuals pretending not to listen to her reply. She sensed that her unexpected paramour was too adept at making himself appear a little blundering, whether he was aware of it or no; she didn't want to secretly laugh at him. She had been scorned too many times herself to not feel the bitter sting of it; indeed it was the very reason for her antagonistic beginning, long since apologised for and forgiven, with the man seated on the other side of her, now quietly seething, somewhat ironically, on her behalf.

Then again, Charlie had just been rather impertinent, and she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of the one-upmanship on Gilbert he was undoubtedly seeking. He certainly did himself few favours.

Anne took a deep breath. "I do thank you, Mr Sloane, most sincerely, for your invitation," she answered. "However, I regret Priscilla and I are already committed to volunteer on the refreshments table; it saves us the price of a ticket but we still feel we are doing our bit. I'm afraid it means going a little ahead of time and helping to set up; it wouldn't be fair to keep you waiting on me half the night. However, I will definitely have some time off for dancing; I hope you may allow me to save a waltz for you."

Charlie had no choice but to be much mollified by Anne's response, particularly when she gave such a sweet smile with her words. He wasn't much used to women being so agreeable, once they actually got to know him. He resolved to take her up on her suggestion and more besides, if he could manage it; furthermore he was quite happily disposed to overlook her rather arrestingly hued tresses to consider Anne Shirley a more than passably pretty girl, and a most promising new acquaintance, and Gilbert be damned.

"Thank you, Miss Shirley," Charlie replied. "I'd be much obliged if you would."

Gilbert, meanwhile, relaxed the long fingered hands which had clenched themselves into fists, almost of their own accord, hoping he could thus also relax his features. He had well noted the attentions paid to Anne from Fred's friends and most especially from Charlie; he knew there was no justification for him to be so annoyed by them. He cleared his throat, which had tightened painfully.

"It was indeed _very_ good of you and Pris, Anne… to support the football club in that way, volunteering for the refreshments table. I want you to know how very much we appreciate it."

From opposite came a little choke of laughter, and Pris rolled her eyes at him.

"Gilbert, we appreciate your sentiments, but I think I speak for Anne too when I explain that we both volunteered _generally_ – no one in their right mind actually _offers_ to be stuck with the punch bowls!"

Gilbert's eyes widened at this revelation, before a little puzzle piece fell into place. _Maisie._ He sighed to himself; obviously he was even less adept at the Secret _Motivations_ of Women than he was at their language.

He recovered himself quickly, however, not missing a beat.

"If that is the case, my fair Miss Grant, then I will take it as my solemn responsibility to relieve both yourself and Miss Shirley from your duties as often as possible."

His wide grin met Pris's despairing smile, but then she wrinkled her nose at him, accepting his charm as his apology. Anne didn't turn to meet his eyes.

Talk turned mercifully from football and dances to the other extra curricular pursuits people were enjoying both at Redmond and the business college. Fred and his friends were members of a Chess Club, and appeared to be as competitive as any man who had ever run onto a sporting field; Diana, weary of cooking tomes, particularly those in _actual_ French, was attempting to start up a book club of sorts with some likeminded girls, and announced, beaming at Anne, that she had hit upon an idea for their first novel; Jane's unexpectedly wealthy beau, Harry Inglis, was introducing her to the world of art, which made the girls studying Art History particularly envious; Pris, Anne and the absent Phil, off visiting her parents that weekend, were widely congratulated on winning their second debate rather convincingly; Ruby was lamenting the lack of a dramatic society at business college unlike at Queens (or indeed Redmond) and hoping somewhere in Kingsport would put on a decent nativity play at the very least.

That prompted thoughts of Christmas, seven weeks away, and how on this good earth they would all cram in the work and study necessary beforehand. There was a general groaning and comparing of workloads.

"Where do _you_ hail from, Anne?" Jane ventured, thinking she herself might be all the way back to Winnipeg for Christmas, and how that news would be broken to the various Andrews family members, most especially her mother. "Do you have far to travel?"

Anne, having enjoyed her afternoon more than she could have ever hoped, despite the slight awkwardness of before instigated by Charlie; feeling at one with all the friendly, amusing young people here; and feeling, for the first time, that Redmond had the potential to become a real home to her, stiffened despite her best efforts. She knew this subject was inevitable. She had avoided it for longer than she thought she might; Redmond tended to draw students from all over, and it was no surprise that people arrived here from different places and different life experiences. She knew she mustn't shy away from her background anymore... The fanciful notions of her girlhood, when she had invented wild stories of her parents being missing, presumed lost, at sea, or that time during her teacher's license when she had almost succeeded in convincing herself they were on extended travels in Europe, had not served her well. Among these good people the simple good truth was needed.

"Oh, I've lived here, there and everywhere!" Anne now waved her hand airily, offering a bright, determined smile, "but I was born here in Nova Scotia, in Bolingbroke."

"Oh, like Philippa!" Pris offered.

"Yes, but our paths didn't exactly cross. I think we would have moved in _very_ different social circles!" Anne answered with a wry smile, acknowledging the young Miss Gordon's monied family connections, and was rewarded with everyone's warm, knowing laughter.

"Well, I'm sure your folks must be real proud of you, Anne. You know, here at Redmond, doing so well," Charlie added, keen to lay some groundwork before the dance.

Anne looked a little askance at him.

"That's kind of you, Charlie. I am sure they would be. They were both teachers, too, you see. Except… except…" she looked around the room as the gazes of her new friends hung on her, expectantly, curious as to the history of the new chum in their midst. She groaned inwardly and cleared her throat. And then swallowed carefully. "Except that they both died, when I was a baby."

The shocked, sympathetic silence in the room lasted for several beats. Their reactions, not unexpected, still made her stomach churn. She didn't want to be different from them, but the sharing of this information always ended by making it so.

"I'm really sorry to hear that, Anne," Charlie murmured sympathetically.

"I'm _so_ sorry, Anne!" Diana exclaimed passionately, close to tears.

Jane, Pris and Fred nodded their sad assent. Fred's friends looked apologetically awkward. Ruby blurted out that being an orphan must be rather tragically romantic, before a stern warning glare from Jane silenced her further. To her right she reluctantly ventured a glance at Gilbert, and the depthless look in his eyes, and his shocked, stricken expression, nearly undid her, then and there.

Anne could feel her cheeks burning.

"You mustn't worry on it," she urged, looking about those assembled. "I have no memory of them, but instead I am able to imagine the most wonderful things about them. And no one is able to contradict me. I have the last word, always, which I rather enjoy," she gave a wavering smile, which Gilbert attempted to return.

"And I'm sure you had relatives, other people about, as you grew up?" Diana interjected encouragingly, seemingly as much for her own reassurance as for the young Anne as was.

Anne took a restorative sip of her tea, hedging. "There were plenty of people about, certainly."

"Well, at any rate, Bolingbroke sounds like a grand old town, Anne," Charlie was desperate to redeem the situation, which had put a dampener on things rather quickly. "Much more exciting than growing up in poky old Avonlea!"

Anne absolutely froze now, and her intake of breath was sharp. Here she was, having cleared that horrible hurdle, thinking that the worst was over. But the worst was only beginning…

 _Worse and worse and worse and worse._

… The room seemed to recede… and there was just she, alone, the last time she had heard the name of that town, seven years ago…

"You… you grew up in _Avonlea?_ Avonlea, Prince Edward Island?" Anne asked, coming back to the present, her clear voice strangled. She had known, vaguely, that Pris came from the Island, and perhaps Gilbert, though they had never much talked of personal things. Deliberately, on both sides. Well, then … deliberately, on _her_ side.

She supposed the Island was big, or at least big enough. So she hadn't asked the question. For she most definitely hadn't wanted the answer.

"We _all_ grew up in Avonlea, Anne!" Ruby exclaimed. "Excepting Pris and Fred's friends here, of course!"

And then there was a crush of excited chatter; Jane remonstrating to Charlie for calling Avonlea _poky;_ Charlie batting back that for confirmation he once walked the length of the town along the main street up to the Carmody road in under ten minutes, and if that wasn't the definition of poky he didn't know what was; Ruby lamenting the active gossip tree that had announced she was walking out with a boy visiting from White Sands before she had even met him; Pris proclaiming it all had nothing on her own Island home town, which didn't even have a haberdashers; and even Fred Wright mumbling his agreement at every new interjection. Only Diana and Gilbert were quiet; Diana because, sitting directly opposite Anne Shirley, she had been shocked to observe she had gone frighteningly pale; and Gilbert because his eyes had been torn back to Anne's the moment she had asked about Avonlea – the question not as a mere curiosity, but because her voice sounded like someone drowning.

And now Anne's eyes were glazed, and she rubbed at her temple worryingly. She looked around the room wildly, the blood thundering in her head.

Gilbert was immediately at her elbow. "Do you need some air, Anne?"

He would never forget the look in her grey eyes as she stared up at him.

"Yes, thank you, G-Gilbert."

To the sympathetic stares of the others, who thought it understandable that all this talk of home and families must have suddenly overwhelmed her, Anne clutched at his arm, her grip tight, and he escorted her out of the sitting room and into the thankful quiet of the entranceway, directing her to a chair. Diana was there a second later, bending down to look at Anne with her kind, dark eyes full of concern.

"Oh Anne! You've gone pale as a ghost! Can I fetch you a glass of water?"

"I'm so sorry to be a worry, Diana! Yes, please, to the water."

Diana bustled out again, and Gilbert heard Anne take deep, steadying breaths. A moment later she gave a watery, unconvincing smile.

"Dreadful headache," she explained, touching her temple again. "It's been stalking me all day!"

"I'm very sorry to hear it," Gilbert offered, his dark brows knotted together. This was the young lady who had joked and laughed with them all afternoon; who had stood to regale them with half of the closing speech of her debate when Charlie had begged her to; and had had them all in pleats with her uncannily accurate impression of the college's venerable old philosophy professor. She had not, until now, showed the slightest incapacitation.

However, that was before she had told them she was an _orphan_ , he chastised himself, his gut twisting. And something else, more intangible… that was before she had learned they were all from Avonlea.

Diana returned with the water, and Anne continued her explanation of a headache, and begged to slip away home quietly so as not to disturb the jolly gathering in the sitting room.

"Let me escort you back to your rooms, Anne," Gilbert's tone was polite but firm.

The immediate refusal had to be abandoned, as Diana accepted for her, gathering her coat and pressing her warm lips to Anne's now cold cheek.

"Thank you, Diana," Anne rallied, "and to Ruby and Jane. You are such an accomplished hostess. I had the loveliest time imaginable! I've never known such a pleasant afternoon… excepting the headache, of course. Please make my apologies to the others."

"Of course, Anne! Thank you so much for coming. I couldn't have done any of it without you – I'm so grateful. Please rest well. And please visit next week before the dance! We can talk baking and books!" she leaned into Anne's ear. "And _boys!"_ she whispered leadingly.

Anne nodded enthusiastically, sharing a look with her, and they hugged again, and then Anne was bundled into her coat.

Out on the doorstep, Gilbert Blythe was a flurry of concern.

"Can I call a cab Anne? he offered. "It's a very long way."

"Thank you, Gilbert, but no. The walk will do me the world of good. I hate to have you miss the rest of the afternoon, however. I really will be fine on my own…"

The words were unintentionally meaningful. Gilbert gave her a very dark look, and offered his arm in a way that brokered no argument.

"Miss Shirley," he crooked his arm and waited. His hazel eyes bore uncomfortably into hers.

"Thank, you, Mr Blythe," she managed, with both reluctance and relief.

It felt incredibly intimate, taking his arm in this way, as he steered her gently down the street. She thought errantly of Maisie, having watched her do the same, leaning in, laughing up at him, and remembered the unfathomable longing she had felt on seeing her… not just for being with Gilbert, though that had been a disturbingly large part of it, but of envying her the ease with which she presented herself to the world, and the welcoming way in which the world greeted her in turn.

They continued down the street, crossed another and began to head towards the town.

"Anne…" Gilbert began with difficulty. "I am so very, very sorry about your parents. More than I can ever express to you."

"Thank you, Gilbert," her response was quiet. 'I do appreciate that."

There was a pause. "All of us blathering on about families and Christmas," he suddenly scowled. "No wonder you couldn't stand it any longer."

"Gilbert, you can't reproach yourself - or them - for what you didn't know."

He shook his head in frustration.

"It's such a thing to carry by yourself, Anne," his voice was still strained. He stopped walking and turned to her. "Did _no one_ know?"

Anne met his eyes with difficulty. "The Dean of the College. Presumably the admissions officer. My boarding house mistress. And… Phil."

" _Phil?"_

"We discovered our Bolingbroke connection, Gilbert. Quite innocently. But then, Phil being Phil, she wanted to know all the ins and outs… I swore her to secrecy, even though she _did_ protest she was rather bad with secrets."

Gilbert thought back on a very particular conversation he'd had with their brunette friend.

"Well, she's done so admirably, I can assure you," he answered.

They were both taking up a fair amount of the sidewalk, and a few fellow pedestrians had to make their way around them, giving displeased looks as they passed. Gilbert stepped back to her, offering his arm again.

"I am not so very bad at keeping secrets myself, Anne," he ventured after a time.

Anne sighed. "There really are some things it's better not to know."

"For you or… for us?"

Anne rolled her eyes, giving him a very pointed look.

Gilbert let out a long breath. "You really are so stubborn minded, Miss Shirley."

She risked a little smile. "And you are so very annoyingly persistent, Mr Blythe."

He smiled a little himself, then. "Well, I must get that from my mother."

Anne looked up at him, bemused. "Is that so?"

"Unfortunately it's probably the only thing I've inherited from that admirable lady. Well, that and her eyes."

Anne allowed herself a little image, of an attractive, hazel eyed woman, cuddling her equally attractive, little hazel eyed son. She tried not to redden at it.

"And what of your father?" she asked.

"Oh, well then, from _him_ I have inherited my debonair, rakish charm," Gilbert offered with a broad smile.

"Naturally," Anne felt herself grin.

"And my modesty," he chuckled.

"Undoubtedly."

He stopped again, and turned to her, a mite embarrassed.

"And, er, my _hair."_

Anne's smile was very wide, and she stared up at the infamous curls in question. Then her face clouded.

"I have my father's hair, too," her grey eyes grew grave. "At least, that's what they told me."

Gilbert's smile and nod were gentle. They resumed their slow progress. If they continued on at this rate they might make the college by nightfall.

"Has it made it better or worse for you?" he asked carefully after a time. "Losing them, never having known them?"

She gave a helpless shrug of her shoulders. His question was an astute one, but almost impossible to answer. "I don't know."

Gilbert nodded again, lost in his own thoughts.

"Anne, I'd like to say – that is, I want you to know that – well, you can come to any of us, whenever you need to. You can come to _me._ At any time, for you need help or support or – "

He stopped up short at her most expressive groan.

" _Please_ , Gilbert!"

"Anne?" he asked in surprise.

"You're doing it already! I knew it would happen! People just can't help themselves. They look upon me like some sort of charity case. I can't bear to have anyone's pity! And I certainly can't bear to have _yours_!"

Gilbert stopped her, with a firm hand at her elbow.

"Anne, let me assure you, _unreservedly,_ that the very _last_ thing I feel for you is pity. I am so in awe and admiration of you I can hardly get my scattered thoughts together!"

His hazel eyes on hers were blistering, and it made her jaw drop. For once, just this once, she was genuinely lost for words.

"I cannot conceive of the bravery you have had in coming here to Redmond," Gilbert bit out. "And of doing it all yourself without an ounce of help from anyone. And I was the _fool_ who called you _carrots_." His short laugh was harsh. "I am so shamed by my own conduct, Anne, I can't stand to think of it!"

Anne's face flamed. Gilbert turned his own face away, withdrawing his arm to rake both hands through his hair.

"Gilbert … _don't_ think on it anymore. _Please._ _I_ don't."

He turned to her, agonised, and stood watching her, taking in her pale face upturned to his, her huge grey eyes, the blaze of hair that had begun it all.

" _I would forget it fain,"_ he claimed sorrowfully, " _But oh, it presses to my memory…"_ ****

She shook her head at him, and put her arm firmly back through his.

"And here I was thinking _I_ was the only one who slept with a copy of Shakespeare under my pillow."

Gilbert took a while to let himself breathe again. He didn't deserve her kind response.

"My father _did_ once claim he believed Shakespeare to be the font of all wisdom," he finally offered.

Anne gave him a reassuring smile. "I believe he may well be right."

They resumed their snails-pace journey, nearing the college at last.

"Ah… he … that is, Anne …"

She turned to him questioningly.

"I don't know what it is to lose a parent. _Both_ parents. I won't even begin to compare our circumstances in any way. But I understand the fear of it, a little. My father … well, we nearly lost _him._ Many years ago."

"Oh, my goodness, Gilbert! That is awful to hear!" Anne's wide eyes went to Gilbert's, and could still trace the pain there. "How?"

His mouth still hated forming the word. "Consumption."

A very dark look crossed her pale face. "Consumption is a hideous thing," she claimed, her voice very low.

"It is indeed." His eyes were worried on hers. "You talk as if you have some experience of it?"

"No," she shook her head resolutely. "Just… someone I once knew did."

"Oh."

Anne seemed to take a moment before remembering him. "How is he now? Your father?"

"Fighting fit, I am delighted to say. We had to go all the way to Alberta though, for treatment. The _Prairie Cure_ , you know. We were there three years. My mother had to stay behind to help manage the farm."

"Oh, Gilbert. What a wrench for all of you! How old were you?"

"Ten, nearly eleven."

She gave him such a lovely look at that. "You were just a wee thing!"

He looked down at her as she looked up at him. Yes, he had been young, but so had she – heartbreakingly so. He vaguely remembered himself at eleven, before his growth spurt; before his confidence – and some might have said before his _cheek_ – grew by degrees as his body grew by inches. He had returned to Avonlea, long past thirteen, as some half wild thing, at least according to his mother; gambolling about like a young colt let out into a new, tantalising pasture, not quite able to regulate his emotions or his hormones. He wondered about Miss Anne Shirley at eleven – who would _she_ have been? The thought made him want to smile so widely and inappropriately he had to work to muzzle it. There was no doubt she would have been some unique and wonderful force of nature – sometimes a zephyr, more often a whirlwind – leaving no one untouched in her wake, changing things and people irrevocably. He wondered errantly how he may have fared in coming up against her. And decided, with another buried smile, _not very well._

They reached the gates of the college, at long last; the very ones they had rushed through in the rain all that time ago.

"Gilbert…" Anne hesitated. "We can go via the outside streets by the campus. We don't need to walk through."

Gilbert swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. He put a hand over hers, keeping her by him.

"I would rather like to go this way, Miss Shirley, if you don't mind." His smile was knowing and determined.

He walked Anne to her dormitory, that late Sunday afternoon, through the very centre of the unusually quiet college grounds; past the library, past the Arts buildings, past the smaller quad with its now-lonely oaks, past the larger quad, past the science and mathematics buildings, right up to the cluster of student boarding houses, at the other edge of campus, and right to her door.

He hoped the entire population of Redmond had seen them.

"Well, then…" he cleared his throat, feeling unusually awkward.

"Well, then…" she smiled.

"I guess I will see you _anon_ , Miss Shirley. In class and, well, the dance, obviously."

"Indeed, Mr Blythe."

He frowned to himself, now, knowing he should have asked her long before this, hoping desperately, with a newly felt and entirely bewildering panic, that he wasn't too late.

"I wonder, Anne…" he annoyed himself by barely being able to get the words out, and he could hardly account for the reddening he felt on his cheeks, "since you were so kind to Charlie, if you would do _me_ the honour of saving a waltz, too."

She blushed in her effortlessly pretty way, her eyes turning beguilingly green as her mouth gave a little quirk.

"I'd be delighted to, Gilbert," she answered, with that lovely teasing lilt to her voice. "That is, of course, if I happen to have a waltz free."

* * *

Fred assisted Diana in returning the sitting room into some semblance of order, once assorted guests had departed, with Jane begging some time to review her lessons for the week and Ruby drifting upstairs herself to review the not one but two offers to call made by Fred's respective friends.

He didn't mind at all the hush after the hubbub of the afternoon; he certainly didn't mind a few stolen moments with the rosy cheeked young lady arranging cushions and readjusting vases of flowers with such a look of remembered delight on her face.

Fred had thought he'd surely be the first arrival; he was astonished to not only find this new Anne Shirley there already but Gilbert as well; not even his blush roses were the first offering, and he had admired the arrangements – and secretly Diana herself – with outward enthusiasm and inner dismay. The old, creeping fear always seemed to re emerge when attending these occasions; that Diana and Gilbert's particular friendship would transform itself, as it had threatened to for so long, into something more than loaded looks and secret smiles; or that someone new would come along, discovering for themselves what had always been so startlingly clear to him. That they would look upon Diana Barry, and they would marvel, and that would be the end of everything.

So really, he thanked the heavens for the obvious, manifold and persuasive charms of Ruby Gillis, and not for the first time. And he wasn't entirely certain… but he thought he might also have to send silent thanks as well to their newest acquaintance; the intriguing girl with the red hair.

"I do hope Anne will feel better soon…" Diana mused now, as if reading his thoughts. "Wasn't she lovely, Fred?"

There was really no appropriate answer to this; he did indeed hope Miss Shirley felt better, and he had indeed noted her general loveliness, as an objective observer, and in agreeing to both he didn't know which statement to respond to.

"Isn't it just awful for her, Fred?" Diana continued, sitting herself down on one of the remaining chairs, and turned her dark eyes rather imploringly to his.

Fred cleared his throat. "It is, rather, Diana. A terrible misfortune. She… she seems to bear it, ah, extremely well." He sat down on the chair beside her, carefully.

"She _does_ , doesn't she?" Diana nodded sadly. "You're so right, Fred. She _bears it extremely well_."

Fred didn't like seeing the pain in her eyes, full of her trademark sympathy. He tried to refocus the conversation on more positive themes.

"You and Miss Shirley appeared to like each other very much."

This elicited a broad smile. "Yes! _Very_ much! I wonder that I haven't known her for ages already – isn't that strange?" she laughed.

"I'm very pleased for you. _And_ for her," he mused himself, perhaps more astutely than he meant to, and Diana's eyes came back to his.

There was a pause.

"Yes, well, I wasn't the _only_ one to have taken a shine to Miss Shirley," Diana's look and tone was now coy.

Fred's eye roll was amusingly theatrical. "Yes. Good 'ol Charlie."

"Mmm…" Diana responded leadingly, giving one of her bemused smiles. " _Charlie._ "

Both he and Diana had noted things that they obviously didn't quite feel they could admit to. Fred had been quite diverted by the little drama of the three players going on opposite him, when he wasn't seeing to Diana. Charlie had been rather typical in his behaviour; Gilbert much less so. It had been very enlightening. Fred didn't know in all their long years of friendship if he could recall a time equal to seeing the appalled, astonished anger on Gilbert's face when Charlie had made his thoughtless approach to the young lady seated between them.

"I'd pay over and above the ticket price just to by a fly on the wall at that dance next week," Fred now smiled to himself, a little regretful that it had grown so popular they'd had to limit attendance to Redmond students only.

" _Fred Wright!_ " Diana giggled loudly, that free, unencumbered – and what her mother would call definitely _unladylike_ – laugh that he so loved escaping from her.

He chuckled quietly at her pretended indignation. She settled again, regarding him curiously. That was the trouble with being a man of few words, he knew. `People presumed you had few _thoughts_ as well.

Fred now swallowed painfully, the _thoughts_ that had assailed him for many weeks, since he had first seen the printed flyer on the noticeboard at college, threatening to overtake him. He had waited so long to make the leap. It made him almost paralysed with fear. Not of rejection, so much … but of things changed, and a path that couldn't be retaken.

"Er, Diana…" he now reverted back to his mumbling best, staring at his shoes, feeling the damned reddening flood his face and sweep down his neck. "Speaking of dances… ah, well, that is, the business college has a Christmas dance on. It won't be anything to match Redmond, I'm sure. But it would be very – _"_ another huge swallow – " _nice_ if you would like to accompany me …"

He thought he might pass out from the blood pumping around his chest and rushing to his face. _That_ would be a way to make an impression. Instead, over the drumming in his ears, all he could hear was the silence, the dreadful silence, and he who found refuge in the quiet found he couldn't bear it, and would fill it with whatever hopeless, desperate words he could.

"Ruby of course will undoubtedly be going, with whichever fellow she has decided on for that week, and so…"

"Yes, Fred …"

"… and so you needn't come with me, as such – we could make up a foursome and - "

"Yes, thank you, Fred."

He had run out of words and certainly out of courage. He was too light headed to take in her response. He turned to her, overcome by his own agony, and stared at her blankly.

Diana's cheeks were rather pink themselves, but her eyes were bright, and her smile was soft and lovely.

"Yes, Fred. I would like very much to go to the dance with you."

Fred tested his smile, which felt fresh and new on his face, as if he had to wear it in first. He gripped the armrests of the chair for support, lest he slide down into an ungainly, exalted, worshipful heap on the floor, at her feet.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

"… _**Anne wandered down to Victoria Island and sat there alone, curtained with fine-spun, moonlit gloom, while the water laughed around her in a duet of brook and wind." Anne of the Island**_ **(Ch. 1)**

*Alexandre Dumas _The Three Musketeers_ (1844) (referenced throughout)

** Louisa May Alcott _Little Women_ (1868) (Ch. 36)

*** _Little Women_ (Ch. 32)

**** William Shakespeare _Romeo and Juliet_ (Act 3 Sc 2)


	6. Chapter 6 A Most Cordial Pair

**Chapter Six A Most Cordial Pair**

Anne stared with wide, wondering eyes at the dainty white dance card, stopped short by how such a little, inconsequential thing could be a token of such beauty and import. She had learned to harden her heart to her lack of worldly possessions; the absence of the little treasures and trinkets that spoke of family and tradition, of relationships and memory. The starkness of her circumstances had never matched her inner wants and desires, however; were that she a magpie she would have swooped down and snatched and hoarded every shiny new thing she saw glinting on the ground.

She copied over the gold lettering of the cover, and then traced a reverent finger along the scalloped edge of the thick card leading to the thin gold thread binding the booklet together, attached to a silken scarlet ribbon with a loop at the far end to slide over a lady's wrist. _Her_ wrist. She would have it rest there securely until it was taken up and perused, the names inside consulted as need be, her Fate that evening already largely determined by the signatures she would find inside.

" _Honestly!"_ Pris now huffed at her shoulder. "I think Maisie and her crew went a _little_ overboard on the club colors. Red and white _everywhere._ I feel like we're trapped in a candy cane factory."

Anne snapped out of her reverie, turning to grin at the bubbly girl beside her, who always managed to see the silly, fun side of everything and invariably encouraged her to do the same.

"Ooh!" Pris continued. "Have you had a look, Anne? Come, then – let's do it together!"

Pris held out her own identical dance card, and counted dramatically to three.

Inside, twelve dances were outlined in the same gold lettering, plus a mystery dance at the very end. Music and composers were listed beneath each. And beside each dance, a straight line, to be filled or no with the name of a particular gentleman thus engaged for it. For five of the dances, she and Pris saw someone had blanked them out, with a beautiful copperplate hand, with the words _Refreshments Table_ instead. That still left seven – no, eight – dances free. Anne saw, with a sense of genuine if gratifying astonishment, that there was a name written for her beside every blank space.

"Well, Anne – the Lord giveth, and he taketh away," Pris grinned. "You've managed Charlie Sloane for two there. But Gilbert's down for two as well. Oh, he's a devil – he's only got me down for _one_ dance, and near the start too. He's a very good dancer, Anne. It will be all downhill for me after that."

Anne heard Pris's excitable chatter but it rather washed over her. Her eyes were still trying to take in the names swimming on the page. A list of alternate waltzes and two steps, and that puzzling dance at the end to round off the night. The inimitable Charlie Sloane had definitely taken Anne at her word, commandeering two waltzes; Ed Sanderson from English class, rather bravely, had promised to partner her for a two step; likewise a gentleman by the fantastically fanciful surname of Summerfield, whom she recalled had been Phil's final decided escort, after much exhaustive and amusing indecision; another waltz and another two step belonged to a debating club comrade and a fellow Art History student respectively; and there, beside a waltz halfway through the evening, and beside the very last dance of the night – whatever that was to be – was the dark, distinctive, upright handwriting proclaiming the name of _G. J. Blythe._

* * *

Gilbert smiled gamely at the scarlet-swathed vision beside him; her undoubted beauty, always rather arresting, now made almost frightening in its' perfection, like the very essence of something distilled to its' purist possible form. He thought in that moment, poised in the entranceway of the hall, that Maisie might be some experimental concoction; a unique mix of atoms and chemical compounds to form a creation fabricated in the laboratory of some mad scientist, whose sole intent rested in tormenting the entire male population. Even now her exacting description of her gown could never do justice to the woman who wore it; the ivory sweep of her shoulders offsetting a disconcerting glimpse of décolletage and the ruby necklace nestled there; her blonde hair piled high and polished, like spun gold, to otherworldly perfection; her eyes a vivid, all-seeing cobalt blue; her lips, with the slight stain of color, now curled into a delighted smile that she passed back to him.

"You look quite beautiful, Maisie," he breathed, feeling slightly light headed, as if all the blood had been drained from his body to furnish the exact hue of her dress. It would be the simple unvarnished truth evident to every observer here this evening; he felt no inner betrayal in stating something so obvious.

"Thank you, Gil," her smile widened. Maisie knew the simple truth of it as well. Her gaze took in the man beside her; the catch of Redmond in his black suit and matching waistcoat – the evening not a formal ball so not requiring a tailcoat – with the slash of red of his tie on which she had successfully swayed him; it was the exact match for her dress, and would quite symbolically also tie him to her for the evening, underlying the rightness of them being here, together.

"Don't you look the most handsome man going yourself?" Maisie laughed lightly, acknowledging the obvious here, too. "I do believe we will make quite the pair tonight."

Gilbert's smile froze on his face. Well, he had sought her, all those ill-judged months ago, and he had won her. He could blame no one but himself.

 _So this is what it feels like to go to your own execution…_ he wondered grimly, before leading them inside.

* * *

Charlie Sloane tugged at his tie before walking with a more confident gait than usual right up to the refreshments table, where the two girls stationed therein were in final preparations. Pris Grant was busily lining up delicate glasses and in some debate over where best to position the ladles; Anne was rather abstractly stirring one of two vast serving bowls of fruit punch, and he heard her murmur rather dreamily as he approached –

" _I love bright red drinks, don't you? They taste twice as good as any other colour."_ *

Priscilla laughed in response, shaking her head ruefully, and her smile was still on her face as he reached them. Normally the refreshments table was his reluctant home at a dance - how mysteriously quick some of these dance cards filled up - but usually there was some female to chat to for a while with no discernible means of escaping him. Tonight, he noted delightedly, there would be two.

Charlie gave his most courteous greeting to both ladies now, even if his natural awkwardness made his tone and air rather stilted and diffident, and as he gave his little bow he could already see Pris hiding yet another smile. He thought the blonde girl as handsome as ever tonight, in dusky pink and lace, but she did seem to always be hiding some secret joke around him; it had been made far worse by her association with Philippa Gordon, and the two of them together were often insufferable. Still, Pris was an Island girl, and that for Charlie forgave many a sin. He would still be pleased enough to claim his lone dance with her later.

He now turned his attention to Anne Shirley, and liked very much what he saw. He preferred Anne's quieter prettiness to any of the showy good looks of Philippa or Maisie; he felt his own inadequacies less keenly. The color of Anne's dress suited her well, as did the rosiness to her cheeks at his rather open appraisal. He'd had a few quiet moments of misgiving regarding the reveal of her orphan status – what would his mother say? – but reasoned generously that it had hardly been in the infant Anne's power to have prevented it.

* * *

If Anne moved just a little to the left of Charlie she had a perfect, unobstructed view of the latest arrivals, including, just now, the tall, dark figure in the distance, and the lady in red close beside him. It seemed to Anne that she spent half her life contemplating Gilbert Blythe from afar – across the quad that first week at Redmond; across the football field when she had snuck in, unobserved, to see the newly minted Freshman Captain in action; and now, across the hall, festooned with the blood red of her pumping heart and the lily white of her nervous trepidation.

Unbeknownst to Charlie, she herself was no stranger to the refreshments table; her early months at teacher's college had found her, fifteen and friendless, barricaded and bewildered, positioning herself there whilst watching every step and spin, every twirl and turn of the dancers. In the absence of any other instruction, watching them was how she had learned how to waltz.

As a certain dark head was about to turn in her direction, Charlie Sloane, as if guided by some unseen sense, moved to block him, as if the two men were still locked in their silent joust of last Sunday.

Charlie cleared his throat with loud aplomb.

"Miss Shirley, I do believe the band is at the ready," he announced, his manner giving the words undue gravity. He rarely had the excitement of leading a girl out for the first waltz; he wanted to be prepared and in place.

"Oh, yes, indeed – thank you, Mr Sloane," Anne replied more calmly than she felt, darting a quick glance at Pris, whose mouth was pursed to stop her grin, but whose mirthful eyes betrayed her. It was Pris's unlucky fate to be sitting the first dance out with the fruit punch, but by her bemused demeanour perhaps the spectacle of Charlie leading out Anne was an entertaining enough compensation.

Anne extended a gloved hand and Charlie's hot, clammy hand found it, and he shepherded her into the very centre of the excited, massing dancers; she wished he might be more circumspect and opt for the fringe, where there was safety in obscurity. Evidently Charlie had little use for obscurity; he grinned, proud as a peacock, and leaned into her.

"You look very well tonight, Anne."

This was of the highest praise, for him, but Anne was unused to such admiration in whatever form, and blushed as if he had acted as if Romeo greeting Juliet. She smiled and looked away, at the streamers above, at the couples around them, and then, straight into a pair of long lashed hazel eyes as they stared back at her.

* * *

Gilbert saw her, as he bowed to Maisie before the music began, and his breath lodged in his throat. He had seen her countless times before, in various guises, but tonight he was seeing her for the first time, and he felt, for all the times thereafter, because he would carry the image of her - _this_ image of her - with him. Maisie had led him around as the band tuned up like some prized pet she had entered in a show, exhibited before all the masses, admired as much for what he represented as for who he was. And he couldn't be outwardly affronted, despite his fierce inner fuming, for hadn't he initially, in inviting her with him here tonight, done exactly the same?

So the chill that had entered the creeping winter of his heart melted at the sight of Anne Shirley, who was the vision and promise of spring, some nymph-like _Dryad of the trees_ ** in a gauzy dress that floated around her like a cloud, her hair a sunset blaze with the early stars seen in the tiny seed pearl pins that adorned it. Under the gentle lighting of the hall her skin was iridescent, and the luminous glow extended up to her grey eyes, large and dark as they met his. She wore the soft green of a freshly cut lawn; the green of new apples in their orchard before they ripened to red; the green of the gentle hills of home.

 _Home._ He looked at Anne and he saw home. The idea of this so shocked him that he turned away abruptly and, as the music began, he nearly tripped over his own feet in such a fashion that would have made even Fred embarrassed for him. He kept his eyes trained on Maisie for the rest of the dance, his gaze so suddenly intense that he could see her unaccustomed blush forming. He was desperate to find in Maisie even a hint of what he had just seen in Anne. He fought to find it, and failed.

* * *

"How are my two lovelies doing this evening?" Phil found them after the first several dances, when the band took a short recess and both Anne and Pris were knee deep in thirsty revellers.

" _I… hate … fruit … punch_ …" Pris offered, hiding her gritted teeth with a beaming smile.

Phil gave a merry laugh, noting that the two long lines snaking their way around the table, peopled almost entirely by males, had little to do with the punch and rather more to do with the two ladies serving it. She herself failed to notice many of those same men cast furtive, longing looks in her own direction, noting the stunning girl with her glossy dark tresses and her form fitting lemon gown. Anne noted her too, and thought how impossibly beautiful she looked, and that the color she wore, a bold choice on most others, suited her coloring and her personality rather perfectly. Phil Grant was, indeed, radiant as the sun.

"My Mr Summerfield is sure to look after you well, Anne," Phil called out to her. "Mind you don't try to steal him away from me!"

"I hardly think you will be in any danger of _that_ , Phil!" Anne replied with an exasperated smile.

"What's all this stealing away business, ladies?" came a familiar voice. "If I have to defend the honour of all three of you at once I'm going to need some punch first to be going on with."

Gilbert had three young ladies turn to him, the blonde, brunette and titian haired trio a rather arresting sight. No wonder the refreshments table was so busy.

"You may not have to defend my _honour_ , Mr Blythe" Phil joked, "But my next dance partner is arriving, and so _I_ may need to defend my _toes._ "

"I certainly hope they survived your dance with _me,_ Miss Gordon," Gilbert worried momentarily, having been partnered with Phil immediately after that first dance with Maisie, when he was still so distracted he hardly knew what he was doing.

"Oh, I think most of our toes are safe with you, Gilbert. It's our fair _hearts_ that are another thing," she teased, and enjoyed seeing his faint color rise, and the quick, momentary flicker of those hazel eyes in Anne's direction.

"Now, now, Phil, you need to practice what you preach. _You_ have a full dance card _and_ a trail of broken hearts already," he smiled at her, finding refuge in his banter. If he was flirting with others generally he couldn't embarrass himself further over one young lady specifically.

Phil beamed, and then her partner arrived and she was whisked away.

"So now, my Miss Grant," he turned his attention to Pris. "I am here to rescue you and make good on my promise."

"Oh, thank _goodness_ , Gilbert!" Pris was too flustered for formalites, and her color was high. "Rescue away!"

She gleefully abandoned her station, apologising to Anne who was still engulfed by those not partnered for the next dance.

Gilbert would have said something to Anne, over the hubbub, but it was impossible. He shared a quick look with her, before leading Pris away. He had two dances to go on his own full dance card, before the most important one of all.

* * *

Anne could see him, tall and broad, make his way deliberately towards her, once the band was in the middle of its next set and she had exchanged places with Pris, having been delivered herself from the more pleasant than anticipated attentions of Ed Sanderson, who evidently was much more amiable outside class than inside it. Anne had felt real joy and relief that the evening was going so well; she was having a rather wonderful time, despite her initial uncertainties; she hadn't disgraced herself or maimed anyone, and she had been in receipt of some rather flattering words from her partners, and a few more besides over the punch bowls.

So she found her hopeful heart sinking as he approached, the very sight of him stirring up all the ill feeling of long ago, and she deliberately busied herself in assisting the few dancers mingling around the table.

"Well, it's Miss Shirley in the flesh, if memory serves me," he greeted.

Anne's chin came up. "Yes indeed, Mr Peters," her tone was cool. "How do you do?"

George Peters gave a very broad smile. "Rather better now, thank you, Miss Shirley."

Anne gave a wan smile in return, unconvinced by his supposed charm, and fiddled with some punch glasses.

"Would you have the next dance free, Miss Shirley?" he asked baldly.

Anne couldn't hide her astonishment, and was grateful she could give such a firm answer.

"I regret that I do not, Mr Peters."

"The next one then?" he was not in the least deterred.

Anne stiffened. "I am engaged for that one as well."

If he was displeased he hid it well, though his eyes narrowed.

"Well, here you are, the very belle of the ball, Miss Shirley."

"Hardly, Mr Peters. As you see, I am standing duty here at the refreshments table for a fair amount of time tonight."

"Yes, indeed…" he mused, taking his own time in contemplating her. Anne's color and her hackles both rose in tandem.

"Well," he continued, "we can definitely do something about _that._ I'm on the football team, as I'm sure you know. No one would look twice at you taking in an extra dance with me."

Anne flushed despite herself. "I couldn't possibly abandon my post, Mr Peters."

"I may have to insist _for_ you, Miss Shirley. In the interests of team spirit, if nothing else." His smile had turned cold.

"I'm sure you must respect a lady's right to refuse, Peters," came a new voice from behind them both.

Anne looked up to Gilbert, to see him unsmiling and wary.

"Oh, good God, Blythe! Of course the _prodigal_ makes an appearance." George Peters turned to view the new arrival disdainfully.

"I happen to be engaged with Miss Shirley for the next dance, Peters," Gilbert tried not to scowl. "My understanding is that you are _not._ "

George Peters' laugh was loud and incredulous. "Is that _so_? Would you be so obliging to our captain here, Miss Shirley, if you knew what he had _called_ you once?"

Anne's stood taller. "I know very well what he called me, Mr Peters," her voice was tight.

"Now, what _was_ that description, Blythe?" George Peters now grinned, stroking his chin in mock contemplation. "It was so very _vivid…_ Was her hair like a squash, perhaps? Or maybe…"

" _Carrots,"_ Anne interrupted, giving him a scathing look.

George Peters raised his eyebrows.

"Insulting Miss Shirley in that way was the stupidest, most childish and most wretched thing I've done in a long time, Peters," Gilbert's tone was dark, and he had a face like thunder. "Made even worse because it was some sad, misguided attempt, at the time, to curry favour with _you_. When really, the only good opinion I would ever want is Miss Shirley's, here, and I hope to learn my lesson and continue to earn it. What has college taught _you_ thus far, Peters, other than how to _persuade_ young ladies into giving you your way?"

There was a little interested, agog crowd beginning to stir about them, and they rather held their collective breath at the end of Gilbert's impassioned speech, and the hint of a threat behind it.

George Peters smile was slow and calculated, and Anne, heating evermore over Gilbert's words, now felt her blood run cold. This was not worth the ugly scene that could emanate from it.

"It's a shame you feel no such compulsion to seek the good opinion of your own _date_ here this evening, Blythe. Or to have her update you on her latest fundraising scheme. Our lovely Miss Monroe has released Miss Shirley here from her duties the dance after yours, for a generous additional donation from yours truly, in order to partner _me_. All in the name of _team spirit_ , you understand."

Anne's mouth dropped open in astonishment. Maisie had just sold her to the highest bidder. Meanwhile Gilbert looked full well like he was about to punch George Peters in the face.

"And isn't it a sparkling idea of Maisie's?" Phil emerged hurriedly from the crowd, giving her little, delighted, deliberate laugh. "Anything for a good cause, George, as you say. But surely you would give a man the right of reply, especially our team captain here. What do you think, Gilbert? Can you match it? How much are we talking, after all?"

" _Five_ dollars." George Peters leered.

Anne stood behind the refreshments table, stricken. That was double the entrance price for tonight's entire dance.

Phil turned and gave Gilbert a smile, her brown eyes flashing a warning to him, and she put a light hand on his arm. "Gilbert?" her voice was measured and quiet, attempting to calm him.

Gilbert blinked rapidly, his eyes refocussing on the smart, instinctive girl in front of him. _Think smart yourself, Blythe,_ he chastised himself.

He took a huge breath, and then gave a little nod to Phil, and fixed his own little smile in place.

"What a generous offer, Peters," Gilbert forced the smile out, and relaxed his stance and his tone. "I'd be happy to match it. Infact, I'll _double_ it – on one condition. That Miss Shirley is not forced to dance with _anyone._ The ten dollars is for her right to refuse, as it should be for any lady, _whatever_ the circumstances."

There was a general surprised, approving murmur. George Peters' face colored so dramatically he resembled not so much a bunch of carrots as a turnip. Phil grinned at Gilbert triumphantly. Pris and Charlie, coming back from their own dance together, looked on in stunned incredulity at what had transpired in their absence. Gilbert turned to Anne. Her face was white and she clutched the table for support.

"And now, Miss Shirley, perhaps in a moment we can have our own _prearranged_ dance?" he held out his arm to her before all the crowd. "But first I think you and I will get a little air outside – it is far too full of _hot air_ in here."

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

" _ **Indeed, they were a most cordial pair."**_ _ **Anne of the Island**_ **(Ch. 29)**

* _ **Anne of Green Gables**_ **(Ch. 16)**

** _"That thou, light-winged Dyrad of the trees…"_ from _Ode to a Nightingale_ by John Keats (1795-1821)


	7. Chapter 7 Revelry and Confession Pt 1

**Chapter Seven** **Revelry and Confession Part 1**

* * *

 _As always, thank you one and all for your lovely comments and encouragement._

* * *

" _Gilbert!"_ Anne was gasping at the cold night air with sharp, panicked breaths. "Ten _dollars!_ "

"It's all right, Anne," he was breathing in rather a lot of air himself, and trying to process what had just actually transpired.

Anne was clutching at her throat with one gloved hand, mildly hyperventilating. "I can't _believe_ it!" she whimpered.

"Anne, you _must_ calm yourself. You'll make yourself lightheaded," he instructed gently, his own hand hovering in the vicinity of the small of her back, not quite brave enough to rest itself there.

"Ten dollars, Gilbert! You'll ruin yourself! You didn't have to do that!"

"Of _course_ I had to do that, Anne," she heard Gilbert explain, his tone maddeningly logical. "Peters couldn't get away with something like that. Although…" he chuckled to himself, "it may have been cheaper to just punch him in the nose. And infinitely more satisfying."

She gave a shaky laugh. "Don't even _think_ it!"

He watched her pace around, trying to slow her agitated breaths. Her hand dropped from her throat to her waist, and he thought errantly of stitches in the side and rain soaked conversations.

"I was _handling_ him, Gilbert!" she gave a frustrated sigh.

"I know that. And admirably, from the little I gathered. But why _should_ you have had to _handle_ him?" he scowled, indignant, his own calm evaporating.

"I've come up against worse bullies than George Peters in my time," her tone was dark and biting.

Gilbert's look to her was quietly horrified. "You know that is not in the _least_ reassuring to me, Anne."

She met his eyes and softened. She was an ethereal presence in their little island pool of light, illuminated by the two streetlamps either side of the hall's main doors, down the steps from the entranceway, with the long shadows surrounding them like a stretch of dark, treacherous water they dare not cross. He went to run a hand through his hair in frustration, but it had been _pomaded_ into submission, so he had to settle for rubbing the back of his neck roughly.

"Gilbert, what are we to do?" she pleaded.

His pulse skittered at her use of _we._ He straightened, resolute.

" _We_ are not doing anything, Miss Shirley. _I_ am writing an IOU for the club's committee and following up with a bank draft on Monday."

"Gilbert…" Anne breathed, shaking her head furiously. "I can't let you _do_ that!"

"And why not?" he challenged, his voice rough, and he took a step towards her. "Isn't your honour _worth_ ten dollars, Anne?"

He caught a glimpse of her stricken face before she hugged her arms about her and stepped back, away from him, retreating to the security of the shadows. Gilbert breathed raggedly. It tormented him that she might, underneath it all, actually think so little of herself. She was silently pacing; he could hear the faint tap of her court shoes, the rustle of her dress. He longed to search her out in the darkness, to find and comfort her. He fought instead to find the words to reassure her.

"I can handle ten dollars fine, Anne. I'm not exactly destitute _._ I had the local school in Avonlea for two years. I stayed with my parents and didn't have to board anywhere. I saved more than I thought I would for college. Enough to factor in any … unexpected situations."

He heard her clear her throat. Her disembodied voice floated towards him.

"Am _I_ an unexpected situation?" she asked quietly.

His heart gave a queer lurch. Even the ground beneath him seemed unstable, which was strangely fitting, considering earlier tonight his world had spun off its' very axis.

 _So much more than you know, Miss Shirley,_ he smiled to himself.

"You are a _delightful_ situation, Anne," he instead managed to say aloud, with a modicum of his regular self confidence.

He heard her small chuckle, and was heartened. She stepped slowly out of the shadows, her face still clearly flaming, her grey eyes deep pools in which he feared he could drown if he dared let himself.

"Thank you, Gilbert," her voice was low and unsteady. "It was so _very_ good of you, just now. I don't know how I … that is to say … I think you are crazy. But a wonderful, chivalrous, gentlemanly sort of crazy."

His own low laugh was warm. "So maybe just a _touch_ of Lancelot, then?" he stepped towards her again, where the light haloed them.

Her smile was flustered. "Maybe just a touch."

He nodded, hands in pockets, smiling himself, well pleased with her concession.

The band had finally started up their next set. Goodness only knew what mild pandemonium they had instigated to have caused such a delay. Gilbert cocked his head to the music floating towards them, and then turned back to her, grinning.

"Anne," he announced. "It's our waltz."

Her gulp was audible. "Gilbert, I don't think I can go back in there just yet," her whole being proclaimed her panic.

He took a breath, his eyes steady on hers. He held out his hand to her.

"I wasn't proposing we do."

It took a moment for her to register his meaning. She opened and closed her mouth, amusingly mute.

"Are you really going to deny a poor man his prearranged dance, Anne Shirley?" he teased, eyebrow arching.

She grinned despite herself, her grey eyes huge on his. She reached out and took his hand.

They made their bow and curtsy. His left hand supported her, their arms extended. His right came to rest at her shoulder blade as her left hand settled on his shoulder. His hand could span halfway around her if he wished; he marvelled at how tiny she actually was, though she gave the impression of more bulk through the sheer force of her personality. _And though she be but little, she is fierce_ * he thought to himself, and let a small smile escape.

They moved slowly, silently swaying, in time to the beat played, till he actually forgot about the music completely. The gentle rise and fall of their synchronised movements was its own hypnotic spell. He danced her in and out of the shadows, enjoying the play of light and shade across her face, and the way her pupils would dilate and constrict was a mesmerising magic. Her scent – _Lily of the Valley_ – was on her skin and in her hair and it made his throat tighten. He wondered if he could just disappear into the shadows with her forever.

Gilbert considered that he knew many things with regard to women. He knew about Shakespeare and poetry; he knew about flowers and flirtation; he knew of teasing asides and long, lingering looks. Even his fourteen year old self had known the power of a pink candy heart offered at school.

He didn't know anything about _this._ He didn't know about this dual agony of advance and withdrawal, of wonder and of worry, of soaring exaltation and clutching fear. He didn't know what to do when feeling her tremble in his arms just now when his breath brushed the hair at her temple. He didn't understand how he could possibly look upon her anymore and still appear to be the same person he had been before knowing her.

"I meant to say, Anne," he fought to keep his voice level, "that is, I haven't had the opportunity until now … to tell you that tonight you look utterly lovely."

He wanted to quote _Romeo and Juliet_ to her, the lines he had actually wanted to say that time under the oaks, the lines even schoolchildren knew. He wanted to quote Keats' entire inventory. But the words swum about in his head, elusive, just slipping away from him, beyond his grasp. But maybe… maybe, this time, he didn't need them. Maybe for once his own would be good enough.

They had stopped, and so had the music, and so had their moment out of time.

Anne's eyes had widened on his, depthless, before lowering, downcast and demure.

"Thank you, Gilbert," she whispered.

He led her, most reluctantly, back inside, with a heavy heart and a much lighter pocketbook, but he was perfectly content with the trade.

* * *

The remainder of the evening passed without incident, although there could have hardly been a scene to match what had happened earlier. Anne felt everyone's eyes on them, however, as Gilbert escorted her back to the refreshments table, Pris there watching them both with huge eyes. As Gilbert politely took his leave of her, he reminded her loud enough for everyone in hearing that this was her dance to sit out and rest, and he would have words with anyone attempting to claim otherwise. His smile was as bright and his tone as arch and jovial as always; only the look in his eyes and the squeeze he gave as he took her hand and bowed gave any indication that anything even slightly momentous and earth shattering had just happened between them.

Pris, with a look of sympathy, led Anne to a chair and pressed a glass of fruit punch into her hand with a droll smile. Anne relished its sickly sweetness as much as having something to do as she watched Gilbert sweep past with Maisie, the beautiful girl with a face frozen into an unconvincing smile that almost made a mockery of her perfect features; Gilbert, with his own face averted from her and his mouth tight, his body locked and tense. Gilbert noted Anne in turn, for he was looking for her, and even as he held Maisie with barely disguised displeasure all he could still think about was that only moments before he had shared the same dance with an enchanted, sylph-like creature in the soft, dreamy darkness outside.

George Peters, he noted with grim satisfaction, he couldn't see anywhere at all.

The rest for Anne was a blur. Phil came up to her the moment she was free, her charming Mr Summerfield in tow, to share some small talk but was really just trying to ascertain if she was recovered from all the drama; Anne knew full well they owed the averting of certain disaster to her cool head and quick wits, and tried to say as much in the enthusiastic grasp of her hands and her kiss on Phil's cheek. Anne smiled and danced with her remaining partners, including Charlie again, who seemed to carefully contemplate her as if still undecided as to whether he himself would have relinquished ten dollars. And she finally, with blessed relief, clinked glasses with Pris as they saw the last drop of fruit punch served.

Then, there was the final mystery dance.

This time Anne watched a very different man make his determined approach, with very different feelings. Gilbert seemed to be aware of the irony, and there was a decided quirk to his lips and a knowing gleam in his eyes.

"Hello there, Miss Shirley."

"Good evening, Mr Blythe."

They smiled at one another a little stupidly, and then both looked away, embarrassed.

They were the only ones at the refreshments table; virtually everyone else was crowded around the small stage, at the other end of the hall, watching a scarlet clad girl make a mildly self congratulatory speech. Maisie was thanking the countless supporters of the football club for their efforts, though she neglected to name any; she thanked everyone for their attendance and hoped they would continue to watch the games, though she did not mention any of the players, most particularly the freshman captain who had escorted her; and she gave the final, rousing total of the funds raised that evening, most pointedly neglecting to mention a certain ten dollars, which had bolstered the coffers exponentially.

Anne watched Maisie and tried to not let the angry flicker of flame rise within her.

"She was very wrong to do it, Gilbert," Anne announced hotly, unable to help herself.

Gilbert turned his eyes to her. "She was indeed _very_ wrong, Anne."

Anne was annoyed at her blush. She had determined she would not let Maisie affect her.

Gilbert cleared his throat. "I'm afraid that I won't have room on my list of acquaintances for Miss Monroe after this evening," he mentioned carefully, looking away from her, contemplating Maisie from afar, with a frown.

"Gilbert… _please_ … you don't need to do that on my account."

Gilbert's smile to Anne was soft and knowing. "I'm not. I'm doing it on _mine._ "

They exchanged a long look.

The venerable, grey haired bandmaster had wrestled attention away from Maisie; he announced the evening's final dance with great fanfare.

Gilbert had started to laugh, shaking his head. "Oh Lord! I don't believe it!"

Anne was perplexed. "The _galop_ , Gilbert? What is it? I've never heard of it!"

"And quite rightly, too," Gilbert grinned. "It's a variation on the polka. They were both ancient dances when my _parents_ were doing them."

Anne looked back to the dancefloor, which was descending into merry mayhem, with much laughter and couples careening inexpertly around.

"Gilbert… I don't know the steps!"

Her gave her a delightfully boyish smile. " _No one_ does, Anne!"

He took her hand in his, grasping it firmly, and led her into the fray.

* * *

Thankfully there was a separate group to arrange the clean up of the hall; Anne did not envy them their task, although she was rather past caring at this point.

Couples were taking their leave; Anne noted Phil and Mr Summerfield up ahead. Maisie had stationed herself near the doors as if she was farewelling guests at her own wedding reception; Gilbert stood quietly, and somewhat grimly, to the far side of her.

Gilbert, naturally, was to escort Maisie home, as was only proper and fitting; Anne knew he would never shirk such a responsibility, and admired him for it all the more, even as she still burned from having his hand decidedly at her waist as he twirled her round for the last dance, them both buoyant and breathless, laughing into one another.

She and Pris were either side of Charlie, who was seeing them both back to their shared dormitory; this arrangement seemed to have been quietly confirmed by Gilbert, who had surprised Charlie with a thankful, hearty handshake; Charlie was both gratified and mystified, and thought that Gilbert, from his bewildering and contradictory actions that evening, was clearly on the verge of some mental break.

Anne tugged at her gloves, biting her lip in agitation. She needn't say anything; she was quite certain Gilbert would say it for her on his long, uncomfortable walk home with Maisie. But something in her recoiled at the idea of others doing her talking for her. She had spent her short lifetime so far in determinedly passionate defence of her person; she thought of one other, long ago, who had risked so much to do the same. He had been on her mind all week, in her quiet moments; she would not betray the memory of him now _._

They reached the doors.

"Miss Monroe – may I have a quick word?" Anne asked with a false gaiety, smiling brightly.

Pris and Charlie turned their heads towards her. Phil, halfway down the steps outside, heard Anne's clear, sweet, determined voice and made her date stop and double back; Gilbert's hazel eyes watched her with a wary wonder. Several others, about to depart, suddenly found themselves in difficulties regarding their coats, which had become unexpectedly troublesome, causing delay.

Maisie had her same false, fixed smile in place as she regarded Anne.

"Oh, Miss Shirley, as you can see, I am rather engaged at present."

"Indeed it has been a busy evening for you, Miss Monroe, but this won't take a minute."

Anne marched several yards away, giving Maisie little alternative but to follow her. Anne ensured they were not quite in hearing distance of any others; her words were only for Maisie. And for herself.

"Miss Monroe," Anne began, staring into the other girl's eyes resolutely. "I would never have presumed we would be friends; however, I can hardly suppose what would have caused your actions here tonight to have treated me as such an enemy. You placed our own mutual _friend_ – a good, decent, hardworking man – in an impossible situation, and that, more than your own slight to me, is what I find unforgivable. I already knew Mr Peters to be far from a gentleman. I was most disappointed for you to expose yourself as being no lady."

Anne nodded curtly, and stalked away.

Gilbert noted Maisie's quailing look and her eyes, wide with shock. He noted Anne's high color and the proud tilt to her chin. She flashed grey eyes to him full of spark and fire; he stared back at her, giving a small, incredulous smile, his eyes following her as she took Charlie's arm and he escorted her out.

Gilbert could hardly account for the mad pounding of his heart in an evening that had caused it to work overtime as it was. All he knew was that he had thought Anne had been perfect on many occasions this extraordinary evening; he realised, wonderingly, that he had just seen her most perfect incarnation of them all.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

" _ **They both looked as fresh and bright-eyed… as only youth can look after unlawful hours of revelry and confession."**_ _ **Anne of the Island**_ **(Ch. 7)**

*William Shakespeare _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ (Act 3 Sc 2)


	8. Chapter 8 Revelry and Confession Pt 2

**Chapter Eight**

 **Revelry and Confession Part Two**

* * *

 **I cannot thank you enough for your reviews and follows. They make me grin shamelessly!**

 **Thank you for your lovely interest and investment in a particular character - more on him is coming, I assure you.**

* * *

It had taken Gilbert the entire Sunday and two and a half days of the next week before he could no longer stand it and had sought desperate refuge, fleeing to the almost monastic quiet of Fred's own small boarding house near the business college.

He had thought he had attracted a certain amount of notoriety before, but it had been nothing to the feeding frenzy felt in the wake of the fundraising dance. His nights had been filled with delightful dreams revisiting every delicious aspect of the evening, with particular reference to a dance in the darkness, which did not always follow the factual course of events, but more often than not featured a few dramatic deviations. His days, on the other hand, had taken on a certain nightmarish quality.

No fewer than eleven fellows, from his various classes to the dorm rooms, had asked him between smothered laughter or hidden grins, whether or not they could bother him for a loan, given that he was so very able to afford such a princely sum to pay for a girl _not_ to dance with him.

Pris and Phil, full of admiring looks but still patently worried that he had overreached himself, had insisted on sharing lunch with him on the Monday, foisting upon him an inordinate amount of food befitting their concern his newly impoverished circumstances may well reduce him to a mere two meals a day.

Worst of all, in English class only earlier that day during their unfortunately-timed study of _The Merchant of Venice_ , Ed Sanderson had asked their professor with an admirably straight face, before not only the entire smirking class but his own blushing former dance partner, whether the modern equivalent of Shylock's loan of _3,000 ducats_ would be roughly ten dollars.

Enough was enough.

He made it through the class, but only barely. He couldn't even _look_ in Anne's general direction. The young lady in question had a more admirable poker face than he did, despite her frequent high color. They both wasted little time in exiting, and though they had planned to sadly bypass the trees in favour of the relative warmth and comfort of the library (it was now early November after all) there was a general hesitation and the making of inadequate excuses on both parts, and as much as he longed to be with her in any capacity, he took his coward leave of her, and was found by Fred slumped in his sitting room an hour later.

Fred had arranged for tea and sandwiches to be brought up to his room, and after demolishing those they set about ostensibly studying their respective courses; Fred had his share of upcoming exams himself. Well _, Fred_ appeared to be studying; Gilbert took an inordinate amount of interest in the bare branch of the tree outside as it clattered in the stiff breeze against Fred's window.

"Soooo…." Fred couldn't resist, "I'm taking Diana to the Christmas dance, as you know…" _still giving him a quiet thrill to even think it_ , "but I worry that I won't have enough cash for it now…"

Gilbert made an aggrieved face, his hazel eyes rolling to the ceiling.

" _God's teeth_ , not _you_ too! Who told you?"

"Charlie, of course," Fred made unruffled reply.

Gilbert's look was disgusted but patently unsurprised.

"Honestly, Gil. _Ten dollars_? What were you thinking?" Fred was trying to suppress a laugh but was only reddening dramatically in the attempt.

Gilbert made lusty sigh. There was really no adequate answer to that question, on any front.

Fred had to allow several minutes for his mirth to dissipate.

"Well then?" Fred finally managed.

"Well then, what?"

"What do you want to do about it now?"

Gilbert shouldn't have been startled by the question. With all others he was able to neatly deflect with high minded talk of principles and a lady's honour and even once a joke about the team needing new football guernseys. Fred, however, cut to the heart of it, rather uncomfortably, as he so often did.

"I really don't know…" Gilbert's despair – and his confusion – were apparent enough for Fred to abandon any further attempts to tease.

* * *

Diana sat across from Anne that very same afternoon, having offered very similar refreshments, although only the tea remained in any way touched by the pale, downcast girl opposite.

It took Anne a full hour and a lengthy sideline into what a charming young man Fred Wright appeared to be, and how very pleased she was for Diana to have such a lovely pre Christmas event to look forward to, before a very edited version of the story Diana had heard from Pris and Phil the previous day (in much more fulsome detail) was even attempted.

Diana was torn by feelings of clear sympathy for Anne and some sort of perverse pride in Gilbert, as if he had been a recalcitrant student showing great promise who had suddenly aced an important exam, and thus rewarding all the faith others had shown in him over the years.

"So what do you think about it all _now_ , Anne?" Diana's dark eyes were alight with curiosity. She dared not phrase the question a more obvious way… _so what do you think of_ him _?_

"I think… he couldn't get away fast enough today!" Anne remembered with a cringe, the memory physically painful.

"Well… probably that's understandable, given the circumstances," Diana offered gently.

"Circumstances?" Anne's expression was troubled. "Do you think he regrets making the offer at all?"

"No, Anne! I just meant, well, given all the teasing."

"Oh, _that,_ " Anne dismissed with an impatient wave of her hand, momentarily forgetting Diana was not actually part of their English tutorial. "That was just Ed Sanderson _trying_ to be humorous."

Diana's beautiful dark brow furrowed. "I don't know anything about Ed Sanderson," she mused, "I'm just talking about all the rest of it. According to Phil and Pris he's been teased mercilessly, left, right and centre so far this week."

Anne's eyes widened, horrified. " _Teased?"_

"Don't worry, Anne, it is sure to blow over," Diana tried to reassure. "So that's why I think he may have left you so hurriedly. Surely he didn't want to drag you into it as well."

Anne thought back over their class, and indeed the previous few days. Apart from a few curious glances no one had made so much as a whisper to her about the dance. Although, come to think of it, Phil and Pris had been unusually quiet and gentle with her in Art History, and Pris had walked with her quite a bit to any classes they happened to have near to one another.

"I hate the thought of him being teased about it," Anne replied slowly, her voice low. "That's awful. He only did it to defend me – he was only being kind."

Diana's eyes widened, not sure how to respond.

"Well, yes, Anne," her smile was knowing, "but don't you think it was rather _romantic_ of him as well?"

Anne actually seemed startled by that, and surveyed Diana with a worrisome, haunted look in her eyes.

"But he…" she stammered, trying to make sense of this new information. "Gilbert is just… he's friends with me… he's friends with all manner of girls… it's just the sort of thing he _does_ … it doesn't _mean_ anything in that way."

Anne was desperately hoping Diana was wrong. She was perfectly able to cope with the one-sided affection she had nursed for quite a while, content in knowing she had a rather precious thing in her friendship with Mr Blythe and not willing to jeopardise that for anything.

" _Believe_ me, Anne, I've known Gilbert for a long time, and he's _never_ done anything quite like this before."

The words and their import took a little while to sink in. Diana's kind heart ached for the sweet, smart, lovely girl who could still think that a man, particularly a man such as Gilbert Blythe, would stand before half of Redmond and defend her honour so loudly and expensively and not have it _mean anything in that way_.

Diana was not unsurprised when a quick, bewildered flood of tears came from those big grey green eyes. She moved quickly to embrace her newfound friend, thinking that they would require two more rounds of tea for sure.

* * *

Diana's second afternoon tea event that Sunday was an unfortunately miserable affair. Everyone seemed out of sorts. The injustice of it was that Anne arrived early again and she had plenty of time to help instruct her on the finer points of creating _eclairs_ and _mille-feuille_ which turned out beautifully, though Diana rather thought all their efforts wasted on the subdued group that congregated again in her sitting room.

Ruby was very put out that neither of Fred's friends made an appearance; the two gentlemen had both learned that they had been invited to call, and as Ruby couldn't make up her mind about either of them they thought it best that neither of them continue to pursue her; it wouldn't do for two fellows who wanted to go into business together to have a falling out over a girl before they even started.

Jane was miserable because her mother had most definitely put a stop to any fool notions of her going all the way to Winnipeg for Christmas; if her gentleman friend was as rich as she said he was he could almost certainly come to them, and Jane feared, not unreasonably, that if Harry had to meet all her relatives first she might never get a proposal out of him.

Phil was despondent, having received a letter from home, that one of her many old beaux whom she had warned not to mope around and wait for her had taken her at her word; he was to be married next summer, and although she still had the consolation of the ever-faithful and oft-mentioned Alec and Alonzo, she was still momentarily fearful that she had perhaps let the love of her life slip through her fingers.

Pris was dejected, believing all her efforts at the dance had been wasted, alongside her pretty new dress, for if she hadn't received one nibble of interest from eight different dance partners and still had no suitors on the horizon come another dire family Christmas she just might have to do something drastic, like become a missionary.

Anne and Gilbert were clearly incapable of acting normally around each other whatsoever after all the drama that had emerged from the dance; they had difficulty making eye contact, spoke with a new formality and politeness that was almost comical, and had a propensity for spilling things near or even _on_ one another's person (Gilbert being somewhat fortunate that when Anne's hand slipped that time she was offering round the sugar, and not the actual tea itself).

Charlie being Charlie was grumpy as almost a natural state of affairs; the fact that no one thought to ascertain if this was due to his general current outlook on life, or a brand new grievance, possibly did little to encourage the improvement of his temper.

It was almost a relief for Diana to wave the five of them off back to Redmond, and shoo the other two girls upstairs. Thank goodness, then, for Fred, who was the only one capable of talking any sense it seemed, and whose steady support of her encouraged her to see the afternoon not as a failure, but as an act of friendship, and if people didn't always behave the way you wished them to it wasn't a personal slight. Fred was looking very well these days, Diana thought; since she had agreed to accompany him to the Christmas dance two weeks ago he seemed a little more confident, and even perhaps a little taller. Although he was not handsome in Gilbert's striking way (in all honesty, few men were) she found she didn't mind his looks at all, and from certain angles he could seem rather rakish. He also blushed far less now, which was an obvious advantage; that he occasionally encouraged _her_ to blush a little _more_ was indeed a puzzling new development.

* * *

Another week and the biting November winds swept away any remaining efforts by the general Redmond populace to make his life a misery. Gilbert was relieved that everyone's attention now seemed focussed on exams rather than himself; he could take a joke as well as the next man (hadn't he paraded up and down the streets of Kingsport in the frilliest of aprons for the _Lambs_ for goodness' sake?) but the recent joshing had left him unaccountably raw and exposed, for it had been about Anne.

The farce of poor Diana's afternoon tea last week was patently ridiculous, and he had given himself a rough metaphorical shake and charged himself with the duty of getting his sorry act together. Was he to fall apart at the first real challenge to his citadel of calm, controlled, confident manhood? Was he to fall about like some teenaged swain in the agonising throes of his first crush? He decided, firmly, that he would relegate any betraying thoughts of Anne Shirley to the deepest recesses of his mind, or at the very least to his non-waking moments. He had long-held goals and ambitions before him; he had four exams, two term papers and a report to Student Council to occupy him. He had more than enough to go on with.

Of course, if he was truly honest, the issue had nothing to do with his manhood. It wasn't so much that he had been left raw and exposed, but that _she_ had. When she was linked with him in this way she was vulnerable to all sorts of conjecture, some of which had floated past his ears, as cruelly insulting as George Peters himself had been, things that made him sick to even have heard of them … summarised in the general debate of whether or not Anne Shirley, for all her smarts and gumption, was really worth the ten dollars.

If he cared for her at all then he needed to protect her. The simple way to protect her was to not expose her again, to not single her out, to not make the girl who was wonderful and unique and extraordinary be special to him in any way.

For her to be one of the many. Instead of being, perhaps _, the_ _one._

* * *

Anne came to the conclusion that Diana must have been swayed by her own romantically minded sensibilities and that she had been mistaken in her thoughts about Gilbert's true motivations. She felt wretched to think on the afternoon tea last week; such terribly embarrassing behaviour – spilling the sugar on him had her in agonies for days afterwards - and she decided firmly that she must gain control of herself. _"There had been a new, secret self-consciousness in her heart with regard to Gilbert_ * from that afternoon on that she was still trying to process. So many girls of her acquaintance here at Redmond had thrown and continued to throw themselves at Gilbert Blythe, particularly with he and Maisie barely on speaking terms now. It would be just too terrible to be yet another of his adoring acolytes – had she no self respect whatsoever?

The difficulty was that Diana had opened the lid of the _Pandora's box_ of her attention-starved soul and it was very hard to close it again. The moment she shut her eyes she was back there, blushing in his arms in the darkness. His eyes as he looked at her, his strong arms as he held her, the smile he gave her … she thought on them now and it made her cry into her pillow with a longing she barely understood. She would be mortified if she ever betrayed herself in any way in front of him.

 _No._ No. She just wouldn't allow it.

* * *

It had been worrying Gilbert for weeks, all through their almost-completed exams. He hadn't known how he would possibly broach it with her. Would he be overstepping the mark? Would she feel affronted? Would his thoughts be considered the actions of a _friend,_ considerate and caring, or some puppet-master, calculated and controlling, trying to set the world to rights?

He found her, as he expected he would, in the little corner of the library they had staked a claim to. She worked harder than anyone he knew – except, he gave a wry smile, possibly himself. He paused momentarily in the dim late afternoon light, a secret presence amongst the silence of the shelves, watching her, remembering the way he had done so on another occasion, mesmerised as before by that slight, fair hand; the frown of concentration that caused that crease between her brows; the slight pout to her lips; the fantastic flame of hair. But he had knowledge of her now; he knew the feel of her beneath his hands; he knew the smell on her skin; he had seen those grey eyes up close, enough to note the green in them. He had clamped down on the sharp stab of pain at the thought of her till it had subsided to a dull ache over these few busy, frenetic weeks. But once he was without other demands and distractions, once he had time to reflect and consider, he really feared what would become of him.

He put his persona in place and quietly approached her.

"There's no use trying so hard anymore, Miss Shirley," he offered with his cavalier grin, his voice a dramatic whisper, "you've already beaten me on our term paper."

She looked up at him and blushed with obvious pride and pleasure, her eyes very bright against the dull surroundings, her sudden smile breaking through the gloom of his private thoughts. The different results for particular subjects were beginning to trickle through, although the final term standings wouldn't be known for another week. Anne had roundly defeated him in English, although he was second to her by a clear margin to the rest; it was still his best ever showing in anything to do with literature, which he contributed absolutely to her influence.

She watched him settle in opposite her, throwing his own books down, leaning on top of them. He rolled his hazel eyes at her.

"It's Dickens wot done it," he gave by way of explanation for her achievement.

She stifled an almost too-loud laugh, for she loved to see him like this; playful and boyish, friendly with that edge of flirtation, not weighed down as he had been for that time with thoughts of defence of her and the embarrassment it had caused him _… I had a friend's face under my gaze… I looked at it; I smiled… I was absorbed and content._ ** She wondered what life had been like here at college for her before she had properly known him, and found she could hardly remember, and didn't want to. She would take his friendship, and be glad of it, and refuse to stoke the embers of the fire he had briefly lit in her.

"Well then, Mr Blythe," she took a steadying breath. "Mr Dickens aside, you must account for your own perfect score in Biology."

Gilbert's smile widened. "Yes, well, I guess a lucky fluke."

"And Chemistry?" she raised an eyebrow.

He reddened by degrees. "It wasn't a _perfect_ score in Chemistry…"

He accepted her bemused smile. He was very happy to see her relaxed in his presence again; he had hated seeing her discomfort at Diana's almost as much as he had hated to feel it himself.

But then she would look at him that way of hers, like she was doing now, and that citadel began to crumble.

"Anne… I wonder … that is, I've been thinking of… well, of Christmas. When the term ends. When Christmas comes," he suddenly blurted.

 _Oh good God. Be quiet._

"And I was just contemplating what you would do this year. For Christmas."

 _Stop talking._

"Because, well, Avonlea is not at its best, but its' still rather pretty. There's the snow on the fields and… well, obviously it wouldn't be … proper … for _me_ to invite you. For Christmas …"

 _Blythe, for all that is holy, shut up!_

"… but I know there's Diana … and Jane and Ruby for that matter, who would love to have you. So that you would… er… have somewhere, for Christmas."

 _Goodbye, Miss Shirley. I must be leaving now._

Anne looked at him for long moments, her stare wide and unblinking. He had thought this over for three weeks, and _this_ is what he had come up with.

"I'm sorry, Anne. It's none of my business."

"You… you want me to come to Avonlea?" her voice actually trembled.

Since the dance he had done nothing _but_ think of what would happen if she came to Avonlea. He had had clearly _deranged_ dreams of her in Avonlea. Visions of him showing her about; laughing with her at his experiences either side of the teacher's desk in the schoolhouse; taking a long, secluded stroll down Lovers' Lane; his father proudly showing her around the farm; his mother, laughing with her in the kitchen.

"I …" he stumbled. "I was out of turn. It was a bad idea."

"It… it was… a very lovely idea," she faltered. "Diana _did_ ask me, for Christmas. And Phil. And Pris."

"Oh, well, of course. Naturally. That's terrific." _Idiot._

And then his hopes rose. "Are you actually…?"

She had that stricken look of hers, which he didn't always understand, and which made him feel completely helpless.

"No…" she was shaking her head slowly, "I… that is … not Avonlea." She seemed to contemplate something. "I don't think… not _yet._ "

 _Yet_ was a very important little word. There was hope in it, but perhaps there was fear in it too.

"I thought… Phil was so kind to … Bolingbroke, you know. My parents."

"Oh yes," he nodded abstractly, his mind still back in Avonlea. "Of course."

There was a long silence, not awkward, but not exactly comfortable either.

"Thank you though, Gilbert," she reached out impulsively to put a hand on his arm, her eyes suspiciously bright as they met his before she glanced away.

He thought it hadn't been a complete disaster. He vowed he wouldn't quite give up on everything. Not _yet._

* * *

Fred came to escort Diana to the Christmas dance promptly at seven o'clock. Diana was relieved Ruby and her date had gone on ahead. She knew that Ruby's rapid-fire, incessant chatter made him nervous. She rather preferred him not to be.

Fred looked upon her as if he was to lose his vision on the morrow and she would be the very last thing he would ever see with his own eyes. Diana wore a burgundy dress of velvet with a sprig of holly in her glossy dark hair. He knew that if this night were a disaster, if she never wanted to see him again at the end of it, that it would still sustain him for all time thereafter; the look of her, taking his arm, beaming at him.

The dance was a genteel affair; the business college had a very disparate, and generally older, mix of students. Everyone was rather quiet and serious and respectful. There would be no raucous scenes to relate in agog tones later, and if the polka or the galop were to be announced here, a fair few might well know the steps.

Fred introduced her to everyone, and they found her charming and she thought herself clever. Diana rarely had need or opportunity to be clever these days; if she momentarily thought she might have been, there was Jane or Phil or Pris about who had made her feel less so, not in any way deliberately but just by their very presence. But here she was, Miss Diana Barry of Orchard Slope, Avonlea, conversing with all manner of types, Fred swelling with pride beside her.

There was dancing and some rather decent food platters and a chance to sit down and hear Fred talk about his modestly good results and his plans for the farm back home. He was thoughtful and considered, naturally, but not in any way tiresome. He had his own dreams and hopes and ambitions, and just because they were quieter ones, didn't make them any less valid, and what was more he asked about her own. She was rather regretful that in her girlhood she had ever thought him staid.

He had a surprising, sly sense of humour, used sparingly. He remained in awestruck admiration of her, reminding her lavishly. He smiled more often than she had ever seen him. He wasn't such a very bad dancer once you had him up close.

Towards the end of the evening they took a quick turn in the grounds, but it was much too cold and they retreated again inside. By the doorway leading back someone pointed out the mistletoe above them. They looked about and saw that all three entranceways were thus similarly decorated. They were rather trapped.

"I guess, well, it's tradition…" Fred suggested a mite hopefully.

Diana's blushing smile still managed to be amused. "I guess it is, rather."

There was a pause. Diana had thought that her first proper kiss might have come much before this. She might have hoped it would have been Gilbert; she never in her wildest imaginings dreamed it would be Fred Wright.

His kiss was soft and warm. It lingered longer than it might have done. She was a little sorry when it ended.

* * *

Gilbert was due to catch the train linking to the ferry out to the Island early that afternoon. He would be going with Charlie and Pris; Fred would follow in a days' time with Diana, Ruby and Jane.

Phil and Anne would be boarding the train to Bolingbroke.

He had seen Phil earlier, to wish her the very best compliments of the season. To present his little gift. But mostly to ascertain a promise, though he couldn't even verbalise it, and started asking inane questions instead about whether her family gave their gifts on Christmas Eve or the actual day, and was there ever a time when the daughter of the house _didn't_ get the wishbone?

Phil smiled serenely at him. She had been firmly in Diana's camp regarding the mysterious feelings of Mr Blythe; she had seen them together at the dance; she still saw him watching Anne in that way of his when he thought no one was looking. And if she had required any further confirmation at all, it was in his slightly agitated presence now, appearing dashing yet completely distracted, not quite able to take his leave.

"Don't worry, Gilbert. I'll take good care of her."

So having completely laid himself bare to Phil without even realising it – and hoping she was still a passable risk regarding the keeping of secrets – he now waited in the foyer of Anne's boarding house, madly pacing up and down, the gift he carried safeguarded under his folded coat.

He sensed her before even hearing her, as she drifted down the stairs, wearing the dark green skirt and the blouse with the frilly cuffs that he so liked on her, smiling to see him in such a way as to make him want to cash in his ferry ticket and go sleep in the doorway of Phil's family mansion.

"Good afternoon, Miss Shirley."

"Good afternoon, Mr Blythe!"

Up closer, her eyes were shadowed, as if she hadn't slept well. She seemed paler than normal too, but the half-laughing look she gave him was the same, and he remembered his own smile just in time.

There were very few people about; she was able to usher him in to their common room, which was a great deal tidier than the one at his own boarding house, and thankfully empty; on the last official day before Christmas break there were very few who would linger.

"Are you all set to face the frenzy of a Gordon family Christmas?" he asked teasingly.

"I think so. I'm bracing myself!"

"Do give my regards to the infamous Alec and Alonzo. I expect a full report on their exploits when we all return."

She laughed. "Duly noted."

There was a considerable pause.

"Are you looking forward to seeing your parents?" Anne queried.

"Yes. Absolutely. It will be all lovely till round about the third day home, when I start to go stir crazy and go for very long walks."

She gave a generous chuckle at this.

"You must be kind and indulgent towards your mother, Gilbert. She's been without you since September."

This caught him unawares; it was something like his father would say. He swallowed a sizable lump to his throat. He was conscious of time passing and hated having to move on from the moment.

"I…" he fiddled under his coat pocket. "I just wanted to say, Merry Christmas, Anne."

He extracted his gift, with its specifically chosen light green bow.

Her eyes were alight as she unwrapped it, her fingers taking care with the ribbon as if she might save it for later.

It was the complete collection of Shakespeare's sonnets; the newest and prettiest edition he could find. He'd had to strongly resist the bookmarking of Sonnet 116 *** as if in some secret code - long one of his favourites, it spoke to him even more powerfully now.

She stared down at it for a very long time, not even daring to open the cover, but instead tracing over it wonderingly.

"I thought perhaps you might like your own copy," he ventured. "Considering we are tackling them after the break. Though you don't _have_ to sleep with _this_ one under your pillow."

He was almost unmanned to see her tears when she looked up to him. She couldn't even manage a reply at first.

"Gilbert… Gilbert, this is wonderful. I don't know what to say. It's so generous of you… _thank_ you."

The huskiness of her tone was doing disturbing things to his heartrate.

"You are most welcome, Anne."

He was about to fish a hankerchief out of his pocket, before she hurriedly produced her own. He worried that she was thus so prepared, as if she seemed to have had prior need of it.

She composed herself, and then offered the gift she had carried down with her.

"Merry Christmas, Gilbert."

"Anne…" he shook his head in admonishment, giving her a delighted smile. "You shouldn't have."

Gilbert wasn't nearly so careful with the wrapping himself. The package felt weighty but it wasn't a book. He soon held in his hands something that quite stunned him.

It was a mid-sized photo frame. It looked suspiciously made of oak. Placed inside it was a postcard, such as sold at various bigger churches that may have a little gift shop. It was of a saint. He wasn't at all proficient in recognising the various saints, but he happened to know this particular one.

"It's of St Luke," Anne thought it might need interpretation. "I have been reliably informed that he is the Patron Saint – "

" – of doctors," Gilbert finished for her, on a breath.

Gilbert found he couldn't look up at Anne either. On the back she had quoted Shakespeare. _Naturally._

 _We know what we are, but know not what we may be._ ****

Anne seemed a little unnerved by his sudden stillness.

"I just thought…" she began, "that something can be _secret_ , but it needn't be _forgotten_ ," and then she reddened, through he didn't see, momentarily overcome by the wisdom of her own words.

Gilbert swallowed very carefully. He had been greatly buoyed by his academic success this first term. _The honour of leading in the Freshman classes fluctuated between Anne,_ (he himself) _and Philippa; Priscilla did very well; Charlie Sloane scraped through respectably, and_ (had) _comported himself as complacently as if he had led in everything._ ***** One never knew, being a big fish in a small pond, whether the migration over to much larger, deeper waters was going to be successful; whether he'd be eaten alive by much larger fish or merely fight just to stay afloat.

Instead, so far he had crested the waves. But he was in for a tirelessly long swim.

Gilbert cleared his throat, now, disconcerted to be fighting for composure.

He finally looked up at her. Her grey eyes were concerned on his, as if afraid he didn't like her offering.

"I know you're not Catholic... and _I'm_ hardly anything. If you're uncomfortable with it, or, if it's too much, Gilbert, I give you leave to just use the frame!" she attempted to joke.

He stared at her. How could she not know what she had just given him?

"Anne…" his voice wavered, and his hazel eyes burned, "I assure you, this is, _without doubt,_ the most precious thing anyone's ever given me. I think…" he took a very long breath, "that you have just given me permission to dream."

Her smile of pleasure and relief made her look so beautiful that all remaining reason went out the window.

He stood so quickly he nearly upended the _most precious_ gift on his lap. He grabbed for her hand and pulled her up.

"Thank you," he whispered in her ear, embracing her.

It was not a quick embrace. It was not as _friends_ might do. He felt her own voice catch in surprise. But she clung to him all the same.

He had to go. He did so hurriedly – not only because he was already late, but because if he stayed any longer he might not leave at all.

He hoped he smelt her scent on him all the way to Avonlea.

* * *

It took a long time for Anne to recover her emotions, her breath – and her wits – enough to go back upstairs to await Phil.

She had been up all night and was so very weary. She had tried to hide it, but of course he saw.

But she was calm, now. And she was cleansed.

She cradled the book of sonnets as if a baby, and sat on the edge of the bed, pausing to leaf through the pages quickly. She found Sonnet 116, _of course,_ and contemplated it for a long moment, her eyes pricking.

Then she packed it carefully at the very top of her trunk. Alongside the other small package, the two wooden figures, which always, always travelled with her. And her beaten copy of _Jane Eyre,_ her talisman, which did the same.

 _He was the first to recognise me, and to love what he saw._ ******

She hardly knew whom it related to the most.

It had been a very book-orientated Christmas so far. She had gone over to Diana's yesterday with a double copy for her of _Little Women_ and _Little Men._ Diana gifted her a new bottle of _Lily of the Valley_ and a beautifully copied collection of some favourite recipes. Then, a little breathless and certainly blushing, Diana recounted the glorious events of the Christmas dance with Fred, not stinting on some of the finer details, including the placement of the mistletoe and what had happened beneath it.

"It was my first kiss, really, Anne," Diana was practically aglow. "First proper adult kiss, at any rate. You probably think me a hopeless _Island_ girl, and stupidly naïve as well. But it was rather nice I must say. I'm so glad I can tell you these things – Jane would be too droll about it and Ruby too competitive. But I know you understand!"

Anne could feel her face drain of all color over this otherwise lovely confidence. She really wished she _did_ understand, with every fibre of her being. She would give anything to have been that girl under the mistletoe.

Anne had received her first kiss, too. Long ago, and much too young. To say she had _received_ it was in itself an injustice. It had been forced upon her. It had been taken from her. It had been stolen.

Later, the tow headed, gangly boy, he himself hurting so badly, after having been so brave, held her as they cried together. He had no voice left but he still crooned the words to her regardless.

 _Don't worry. Don't remember it. It doesn't matter. It didn't count._

Gilbert had been right. It was too much to carry on her own.

Anne asked the question. She said his name. She would know, must know, finally, what had happened to him.

Later, Diana heard it all, or at least an edited version of it. Anne was very adept at editing her own story.

 _There really are some things it's better not to know._

Afterwards, Anne tried to stop her sob. She put her fist in her mouth and bit down on her fingers. But it rose up from her anyway, from the depths of her; frightening, fearful, keening. Diana had only heard the like of it one other time, when one of the horses pulling the buggy had fallen down a large pothole on the road. Its leg had been broken. As her father ran back to Orchard Slope for the shot gun, its screams rent the air and echoed down the hill.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

" _ **They both looked as fresh and bright-eyed … as only youth can look after unlawful hours of revelry and confession." Anne of the Island**_ **(Ch. 7)**

* _Anne of the Island_ (Ch. 1)

** _Jane Eyre_ by Charlotte Bronte (1847) (Ch. 21)

*** " _Let me not to the marriage of true minds/Admit impediments"._ If Gilbert didn't have a favourite sonnet before, I have just let him borrow mine.

 _****Hamlet_ by William Shakespeare (Act 4 Sc 5)

***** _Anne of the Island_ (Ch. 7)

****** _Jane Eyre_ by Charlotte Bronte (1847)


	9. Chapter 9 The Follies of My Youth

**Trigger Warning:** _I regret to say that this chapter contains violence, assault and implied sexual assault._

 _I have tried very hard to not make my depictions of events in any way gratuitous. I hated to write them; but I include them here, once only, in order to be faithful to a certain narrative I had embarked upon and to be true to my own version of a beloved character and her experiences, and my own (just as beloved!) original character. I do not believe such experiences are in any way unique to this story, but endemic to vulnerable young people at the time, as evidenced in so many of the published accounts, both fictional and otherwise._

 _I am so grateful for the support and encouragement shown here to me personally and to this story, which as you may imagine is not going to wind up any time soon! I acknowledge, as ever, the tremendous fellow writers and readers of this wonderful community, all the thrilling faves and follows, and want here to thank each and every one of the fabulous guests who have responded to this, since I cannot do so individually._

* * *

 **Chapter Nine**

 **The Follies of My Youth**

 _ **Hopetown Asylum, Nova Scotia**_

 _ **June 1876**_

* * *

It was _Inspection Day._

At least, that's what the children called it. Officially it was _Visiting Day_ , when members of the public were treated to the entertaining spectacle of waifs young and old performing for their viewing pleasure. It was such a curious thing, an orphanage; part charity endeavour, part sideshow exhibit, wherein the children were on display like baked goods on a shelf; some fresh and tempting, others crusty and old, unfortunately past their best.

The few families filed in to find the children in the dormitory about their lessons, or engaged in games such as jacks or elastics; the actual toys kept new for such occasions, to disappear again when the visitors did. There would be cups of tea offered around – Martha, Mrs Cadbury's help, was quite rushed off her feet – in order to encourage a convivial atmosphere; as if the young couples with their look of defeated disappointment, or the older couples, already stooped and greying, as if having to bypass parenthood had aged them into grandparents already, were there to pay an overdue social call, and not actually to contemplate choosing a child.

Anne and Tom had been tasked with supervising the youngsters, according to their respective skills; Anne was reading to some of the littlest, straining to engage them so that they would not cry or wander off; Tom had some of the more boisterous boys in the tamest game of _pirate's treasure_ he could manage. Mrs Cadbury weaved in and out, greeting visitors with the widest smile her thin, tight lips could muster; it was the closest she would ever come to being a society hostess, as evidenced by the sight of her in her best skirt and blouse, with the little cameo brooch at her throat, and the additional hint of color in her cheeks, which was not altogether naturally acquired.

One lady, still young and moderately pretty, holding fast to the hand of a girl who resembled her in looks and a rather fine bone structure, seemed to linger longer than the rest; her eyes darted about the room a little wildly, as if trying to remember what she had been searching for; the girl stared at everyone she passed with a fascinated wonder, as if this was the very first time she had ever seen children in her life.

"What do you think, darling?" the lady bent to murmur to her, her tone registering both her impatience and discomfort. "You know our ferry leaves in a few hours."

The girl, perhaps a year or two younger than Anne, focussed her attention more carefully, as seen in the furrowing of a clear, high minded brow; she seemed to have been entrusted with an important mission, and took her orders seriously. Her gaze passed over the boys with Tom in the corner completely; it swept over the girl with the truly awful hair reading to a motley assortment of slightly snivelling youngsters; it came to rest on those stationed at a table, to a young girl coloring patiently, oblivious to the momentous decision being made on her behalf.

The girl pointed a long, slender finger at the beautiful younger girl with the rippling nut brown hair.

" _Her._ I want _her_ , Mama," it was announced, in the way an indulged child might choose a new toy.

Mrs Cadbury had been hovering hopefully in the background. All other visitors seemed to have departed. Now she stepped forward, her hands clasped, her most benevolent smile in place. There had not been any children _going_ in so long, only arrivals, almost every month; an endless steady stream, with nothing with which to feed them and nowhere to put them, till they grew, as children must. Then they exited through the doors from whence they came, into the indifferent embrace of the town, their measly possessions easily carried in one hand, their pinched, pale faces still bearing, despite everything, the tiny light of hope, which was extinguished, soon enough.

But this … _this_ would be excellent news to tell the Inspector next week.

"Lily, my child," Mrs Cadbury marched over to her. "Come and meet a very nice lady and her lovely daughter. Her name is Mrs Spencer."

* * *

The paperwork did not take long. Mrs Cadbury always found this part a disconcertingly uneasy business, and slightly unpleasant, as if she was a market trader consigning sacks of potatoes to be shipped off to parts unknown.

She was most relieved in this Mrs Spencer, however; Lily was a sweet, biddable child, and a favourite, if she was said to have had any, and it would have tugged at even Mrs Cadbury's cool heart to have signed her over to some stern, severe matriarch.

"So I will return in a fortnight," Mrs Spencer now motioned, her countenance having brightened considerably knowing her visit had been so successful. And then her own clear brow darkened.

"Oh my goodness! It went out of my mind completely! We will be needing another child. Eleven or twelve, no older. For a mature couple on the Island – a brother and sister. They are quiet and most respectable. They need someone they could train up. Someone bright and obliging who'd work hard."

Mrs Cadbury was stunned at this news. It could hardly be possible. Two children at the same time, and an older one at that?

"Would that be for another girl, too?" Mrs Cadbury queried quietly, a little dazed. At this rate she should start attempting to claim a commission.

Mrs Spencer was distracted by her own sweet Violet, stroking the young girl's hair, like the pretty doll she appeared. Side by side they even had a similar look about them, and could you even account for the symmetry of their names? It was positively providential.

"Mmm…" she therefore made answer, noncommittally.

"Wonderful!" Mrs Cadbury was so flabbergasted she almost clapped her hands together, forgetting herself entirely.

"Would you have someone suitable?" Mrs Spencer was eager now to be off; they might have time for a spot of lunch before the ferry. "I'll take them with me when I come for our Lily," she looked back to beam at the delicate little beauty behind her.

"I have the perfect child in mind," Mrs Cadbury smiled back at her, almost warmly.

* * *

Tom trudged in after an especially long afternoon. They'd had to have extra firewood today on account of the visitors, and even though it was now June the asylum was so relentlessly cold and draft-ridden, still – as if the old building permitted no warmth to permeate it, human or otherwise – that he'd had to see to all the fires all over again ready for the morning.

He found Anne by their window, in the farthest corner of the dormitory, which had finally quietened down after the disruption of the day. She was balanced with cat-like grace on the windowsill, almost as slight herself as the rotting wood she rested upon, and she stared through the glass down at the spindly trees she always claimed she felt so sorry for.

When she turned to him she had been crying, and he was so distraught by this that he jogged the rest of the way towards her, alarmed that she may have been harmed in some way in his absence.

"Anne?" he said urgently. "Are you all right?"

She opened her mouth but no sound came out. She attempted again.

"They have a family for me," she explained, and her mournful tone made it impossible to know if she greeted the idea with happiness or sorrow.

* * *

"Well, I'll just have to come to _you_ in this _Avan Lee_ place," Tom determined jokingly a few days later.

She regarded him sadly. "Tom, it's somewhere on Prince Edward Island. It's across the ocean. I don't even know how far away it is. I can't find a map anywhere."

"Then I'll stow away on a boat," his expression indicated this idea held a certain appeal. "I'll sail around for a couple of years and make my fortune, and then I'll come find you."

"I guess you _are_ awfully good at _pirate's treasure_ ," she attempted a little humour herself, but her heart felt hollow with it.

He smiled in return, his blue eyes softening. "I'm real pleased for you, Anne."

She turned away from him quickly, the ready tears forming. "I don't even know if I want to go anymore."

"Well, now you're just being crazy. You'll have what you've always wanted – a home and a family. You deserve it."

This time it was _he_ who reached out his large, calloused hand in comfort to her. He grasped her small one firmly, unashamedly. He waited quite a while, in his patient, undemanding way, till she was ready to turn back to him.

"Take your chance, Anne," he told her.

* * *

Anne was slowly reconciling herself to the move. Every day she would spend a few quiet moments with the different children – those she had a special bond with and even those she didn't – taking time to pass on some kindness and comfort. After all, he had no doubt she was telling them, if red haired, thin, hopelessly freckled and outrageously imaginative Anne Shirley could find a family, anyone could.

Tom watched her and his own resolutions hardened his heart and stiffened his resolve. He would not be staying when she was gone. He had a fair knowledge of the layout of the town – hadn't he roamed everywhere when his mother was alive? – and knew vaguely where the docks were. He would walk out down the street to chop his firewood for the neighbouring houses, and just keep walking. He would lie, bribe, cheat or steal his way across the water.

Now, though, the two wooden figures burned a hole in his pocket. He had been steadily – and surreptitiously – working on them for months. The result was more careful and precise than anything he had done in his life, and he was quietly proud. With the Inspector coming tomorrow, he was losing time to give them to her.

He made a bunker in their little corner of the dormitory and beckoned her over. She had a particular, determined set to her chin which he knew meant a lecture.

"Now Tom," she began, disconcertingly schoolmarmish, "I haven't even started in on you yet about keeping up with your lessons when I'm… when… well, _after_."

He gave an aggrieved sigh. "Yes, Miss Shirley," he decided not to argue the point with her today.

She sat down next to him. " _Please_ , Tom. I mean it. I have found the fourth reader that was missing. You _must_ have it. It will guide you to the place you need to aim for."

She _would be the place he would need to aim for._

"You're so very smart, Tom," she grasped his own hand, unwilling to be swayed, her emotions getting the better of her, making her words powerful and passionate. She placed his hand held in hers to her heart for added emphasis.

"Say you'll do your very best, make the most of anything that comes your way, that you'll be the man I know you can be!" she all but cried. " _Promise_ me, Tom!"

Her eyes were wide and the green sparked in them. Her skin up close was flushed and almost feverish. Her lips were parted and were pink and soft. His hand was _on her chest._ His own eyes widened to saucers. He didn't know anything about being a man, but he _was_ nearly thirteen.

"OK, OK!" he laughed shakily, and his reaction broke the tension, enabling him to reclaim his hand and perhaps his sanity. "I promise you, Anne! Absolutely, I promise you!"

 _To be the man I know you can be._ Yes, he could promise her that, at least.

She must have registered something in his expression, for she recovered herself, chuckling ruefully.

"For a moment there I thought you were going to make us take a blood vow or something!" he tried to grin.

He had been joking, of course, but she looked to him, eyes alight.

"Tom! What a marvellously inspired idea!"

"No, Anne, it really isn't!" he rolled his eyes.

He wasn't sure if she knew how much the little cuts could hurt, especially if they were deep enough. He had nicked himself plenty of times and knew the dull throb that could last for days, and how tender to touch the spot was after. And there always seemed to the tiny, fine fissure of a scar.

"Anne, never mind that now," he shifted awkwardly. "I want to give you something."

He reached into his pocket, withdrawing his precious package. He'd had nothing to wrap it in so had torn off a greying corner of his bedsheet.

He offered it to her without words, just his eyes and his newly self conscious smile and the breath that caught in his throat.

Anne unwrapped it with truly shaking hands. She didn't know if she had actually ever received a gift before in her life . She withdrew the two wooden figures, each around two inches high, though one was considerably taller – and lankier – than the other. The detail was fine and delicate, so much so that she could instantly recognise their identities – one figure, long hair in two braids, a hand holding a half opened book; the other, with messy, unruly short hair, holding a little sword aloft.

Anne stared at them a long moment. She touched them carefully, tracing the grooves, reading the detail of them in her fingers, as if braille. She looked up at him, the tears running unchecked down her face.

"They are so beautiful…" she sobbed. "Thank you so much, Tom."

He nodded and smiled, not trusting himself with a reply.

Anne dashed at her tears with her sleeve. "But I have nothing to give _you_!"

He gave her an affronted look to silence her.

"What if… what if you were to keep one of them? Then we would both have a part of them, as it were."

"No, Anne," he shook his head vehemently, finding his voice. "They're a pair. They belong together."

 _Like we do._

The words were unsaid, but they hovered in the air between them, silently reverberating, all the same.

* * *

The Inspector's call began ordinarily; the furious cleaning; the effusive, fawning greeting; the tiresome tour of the building. Mrs Cadbury was a good deal less flustered than on last occasion, and felt mildly virtuous at sharing the news of their _two_ new adoptees; to be able to permanently wave off Anne Shirley, the girl whom she thought she would be saddled with forever, she would claim as a personal vindication of the last fifteen years of her life there in Hopetown.

She was thus less annoyed than she could have been when Martha began complaining extravagantly of a stomach ache the likes of which had never been felt by man, woman or child; in all honestly the girl was so slow and awkward these days, drifting along without the slightest idea troubling her passably pretty head; she wondered at what real use she actually was, if she continued to beg off her duties whenever anyone deigned to visit.

"Well, Anne, you'd best get yourself washed up for tea with the Inspector," she announced to the girl who was down to her last days with them. Goodness only knew what her new family would think of her and her rather uneven set of accomplishments, but Mrs Cadbury was determined that at the very least she would be able to brew a decent cup of tea.

Anne went to collect a clean apron from Martha; she couldn't say she felt any great kinship with her, and found her rather trying to talk to at the best of times, but today Anne was fairly disturbed to see her so pale and quivering, and offered her own bed if the older girl needed somewhere to lie and rest for a while.

For her pains all Anne received was a look of such quiet, dumbstruck misery that she rolled her eyes inwardly in despair of her.

Upstairs Anne entered with her tray; the Inspector was already seated, and didn't have cause to remember the ordinary looking girl before him at all but for her hair, and a certain unidentifiable insolence in her manner which had rather annoyed him.

He listened to the woman prattle on but he was really watching the girl.

The Inspector's eye swept over the lavish spread in front of him, more bountiful and generous than anything the asylum's actual residents could ever hope for.

"My dear Mrs Cadbury," he interrupted her mid stream. "I think we've forgotten the ginger snaps!"

"Sir?" Mrs Cadbury looked blankly, and he tried not to let his mouth twitch at his own joke.

Mrs Cadbury looked down at the tray and the little platters laden with any number and variety of biscuits. Anne looked down at the tray and tried not to salivate. The Inspector looked down at the tray and then up to Mrs Cadbury expectantly.

"I am positive I've had delightful ginger snaps here before," he claimed.

Mrs Cadbury sprang into action. "Anne! Would you go down to Cook immediately and see if – "

"No, no…" he waved a casual, dismissive hand. "Let the girl stay here and pour us another cup. If _you_ would be so good as to search them out, Mrs Cadbury?"

* * *

Mrs Cadbury bustled into the kitchen, going immediately to the tins lined up in Cook's larder, admonishing Cook as she went.

"Ginger snaps!" Mrs Cadbury was saying, clearly exasperated. "How could you have forgotten them?"

"I don't know what you mean, Ma'am," Cook frowned. "I can't say as I've ever made ginger snaps for the Inspector!"

Martha's blotchy, pale face turned white as the apron she had given over to the girl upstairs. She had been shelling peas for her sins, and they tumbled out of the bowl she upended as she slid off the stool on which she had been perched. She looked to the two fussing women, and then around her; her frightened gaze found Tom, having entered to see to the fire. She went over to him as he bent to rake the ashes; already she was starting to whimper.

"Tom…" she whispered. She liked the steady, kind, quiet boy, even if he was a few years younger.

"Hey there, Martha," he replied, not looking up at her.

" _Don't!_ " the shaking girl began to sob. Her tone drew his eyes to her.

"Martha?" he stood, puzzled.

"Don't let her alone with him!" Martha was pleading, and her look and voice were turning hysterical.

" _Who_?"

"The _Inspector_!" she wailed, loudly enough to attract the attention of both the older women. "He's a … a very… _bad …_ man!"

Tom's fair face turned ashen.

As the two ladies stared, and Martha collapsed into tears, Tom had already bolted out of the room.

* * *

The stairs took forever. Tom didn't think he could breathe for fear. He was still a boy but he already knew too much about the appetites of men. He had already seen more than he ever wanted to see in the back alleys and dimly lit corners of the town.

When he was older, he would even reflect on the circumstances by which the pretty girl from the modest but respectable home had ever come to marry a drunken wastrel like his father, who would only abandon them anyway, to increasingly desperate years of neglect and poverty and disease.

But for now, he could only think of pushing himself faster, climbing higher, till he was almost there, close enough to hear the shrill, piercing cry, and the unmistakable sound of something breaking.

" _Let go of me!"_

He fell through the half closed door, in time enough to see the Inspector clutching his head, roaring like a bear, looming large over Anne who was shrunk, little and terrified, against the wall. The remains of a fine china tea service were splintered about them on the floor. The Inspector straightened and in one swift, mesmerizingly fluid motion, he struck Anne soundly across the face.

Tom charged.

It was a scramble of images after that; of Anne screaming as he grappled ineffectually with the Inspector; of Mrs Cadbury and Cook coming in, cowering and confused at the shocking sights before them; of the Inspector grabbing Tom by the throat with one hand, and a poker from the fireplace with the other, and dragging him out onto the landing, whereby he started to beat any part of his body he could reach with the long iron rod.

" _Am I to be so attacked by these two animals?_ " he bellowed, obviously not one for irony, his sallow face red with his fury and the unaccustomed effort of his physical exertions. "It will not be _borne_!"

"Mr Flagstaff – _please!_ " Mrs Cadbury begged, wringing her hands.

The Inspector's dead black eyes met a pair of truly shocked grey ones.

"A temper is a _despicable_ thing in a girl!" he spat, specifically for her, getting in one or two more vicious blows to Tom before he saw Matron coming up the stairs, birch rod in hand in either her own readiness for attack or defence, one would never know, and his lip curled at the sight of her.

He threw down the poker in disgust. It clattered on the floor.

"When I next return here," he panted, though his low tone was chilling, "these _vermin_ will not be."

He straightened his coat and staggered back down the stairs.

* * *

Later, that night, Mrs Cadbury sat amongst the broken remains of the tea service with the little rose leaf pattern, which her own mother had gifted her for the dowry that no gentleman caller had ever had reason or desire to collect.

The woman was a maid herself in all but name; her title was a courtesy given to those in her position of a certain age and a certain standing; conferring respectability if not gentility; if she'd ever had money she could have been the rich maiden aunt everyone tried to cultivate for an inheritance, or the severe spinster whose riches forgave all her wilful eccentricities. Instead she was … _here._

She was here, as closeted as any of the children, but obviously – and shamefully – a great deal more naïve. Her fledgling vanity had been the vehicle by which she had been made a fool and the children in her care had been made prey. She accepted, now, the shattered tea service, the splintered shards already crunching underfoot, with all the broken innocence it so clearly and painfully symbolised, as her penance.

It took her all night to find and rid herself of every piece of it that remained.

* * *

Much, much later, Anne and Tom remade their little bunker for themselves, reinforced this time with their own thin blankets and hard pillows, and with the surprising addition of a few extra besides, offered with silent sympathy by Matron – perhaps her only ever known kindness.

Tom's age could be counted by the number of raised red welts across his aching body; Anne was made grotesque by the way one side of her face had swollen up completely, her cheek already an angry purple expanse stretching to greet the protruding puffiness of one eye.

They shut out the world; they turned to each other.

"I'm so, so sorry, Tom…" Anne cried against his shoulder. "It was my fault! I angered him so."

"It was _not_ your fault, Anne!" Tom's reply was defiant, but so hoarse he could hardly be heard; the Inspector's grip on his throat had squeezed at his vocal cords.

"But my _temper_ …" she remembered his last look to her, and his words, wondering if they, above everything else, would ever leave her.

"Your temper _saved_ you."

" _You_ saved me," she insisted loyally.

He really didn't want to think on it; it made him shudder, and any movement, even involuntary, was agony.

Tom didn't know how to even say it; he had no idea how much she knew. He hardly knew but of the most basic idea of it himself.

"Anne… it was bad. It was awful. But… it could have been very, very bad. It could have been…" he tried to swallow, "so much worse."

She turned to him. She put the gentlest hand on one of the red welts peeking out from the collar of his shirt.

"And this isn't very, very bad? The very worst?" her eyes sparked at that, even the puffy one.

He held firm. "That's not what I mean."

Anne lowered her eyes and looked away. Something in her _did_ understand. Something in her had registered the way the Inspector had looked at her. The way he had lunged at her as if he had been himself like some sort of animal.

"He… he _kissed_ me…" she whispered now, her whole being revulsed at the memory, of him pressed up against her, of his hands digging in to grip and subdue her, of his stinking, hot breath.

She huddled into herself, as if to ward off his attack on her, as if to make herself into a ball. She put her hands over her face.

"Oh, Tom…" she began to sob. "It was… my first kiss."

She wept, then, the sound of it so pitiful he thought his heart might break with it.

She understood enough.

He held her as much as he could manage, and they cried together, lit by the light of a dull moon through the window as lone witness.

"Don't worry…" he now crooned to her, barely able to get the words out, his voice raw. "Don't remember it. It doesn't matter. It didn't count."

As they exhausted themselves, she turned, and her swollen, bloody lips slowly met with the gash on his forehead. Their blood and fear and pain and sorrow intermingled, merged together with the memory.

It was in every way their _blood vow._

* * *

Anne's last morning at the asylum began as any other; waking at the regulated hour; tucking in her bed; shovelling down what was to appropriate breakfast. She smiled over at Lily; the little girl so still and self contained you would think she was awaiting a new bible reading from Mrs Cadbury on a Sunday, and not a new family… a mother (and presumably a father). A sister. A proper school. Friends.

 _Friends._ Anne's throat closed around the word.

Her hand went to check her face, prodding gently. It was still so tender, and the slightest pressure against it could still make her gasp. It was now an ugly rainbow that included additions of green and a tinge of yellow; she had to have her hair down over it, and she had her story in place for the inevitable questions that would come later.

Tom still moved stiffly and with effort, pausing intermittently to clutch his back or some other part of him; as if the pain had broken through his rather resilient defences to stab at him anew. There didn't seem to be any permanent damage; he had known inherently to protect both his head and his hands; only his forehead, above his brow, betrayed any exterior hint of the struggle he'd survived, when the Inspector had caught him a first glancing blow.

Martha was at her mother's for a week, given special leave to do so; when she returned she would be specifically trained in the kitchen, to gain skills far more useful than that of a mere maid, and far less likely to ever place her in the position of being alone with anyone, again, much less a man such as the Inspector.

Anne's worn carpet bag stood sentinel by her bed; it had travelled with her all these years, and would do so again, hopefully for the last time in a very, very long while. Its' cargo was depressingly light but that made it no easier to carry for it; the handles were troublesome, and she seemed to be the one person who could manage it, as if it were a dog that only recognised when she alone called its name.

Anne was shot through with nerves; as the time dragged on she could barely stand it. He had avoided her all morning, putting off the inevitable. She was beginning to be afraid she would not have her last moments with him.

He appeared in the doorway, at last.

* * *

They leaned against their windowsill, _naturally_. And then she leaned into him.

" _Promise_ you'll write to me, Tom," she whispered.

"Of course. I promise," he croaked.

"It's just that I'll always be there. But it will be harder for me to find _you._ "

"Well, naturally. I'll be sailing the seven seas, remember?"

She tried to smile. Really, she tried. She took his hand.

"Don't forget me, Tom Caruthers," she urged, the tears hot down her face, and she didn't care who saw them.

"Not likely, Anne Shirley," his voice was gruff, and he didn't care who saw the glimmer of his own tears, either.

There was a commotion downstairs; of the knocking of the brass handle on the big front door; of a visitor arriving.

Mrs Spencer was here.

* * *

Mrs Cadbury had prepared a pretty little speech of welcome, in her opinion, but it died on her lips at the agitated state of the breathless woman dragging her equally breathless daughter behind her.

"The ferry was late!" she bleated. Wouldn't you know it? There were no cabs to be found anywhere! We'll hardly get back in time as it is!"

"Please don't worry, Mrs Spencer, we'll have you on your way in no time. It doesn't do for the children to have a long, emotional farewell at any rate."

Mrs Spencer looked as if she sincerely distrusted long, emotional farewells at the best of times.

"Very well, we shall wait for them both here in the foyer. I trust they're ready?"

"Yes, indeed."

Mrs Cadbury motioned for her charges one final time. She gave Lily, whom she believed to be a favourite, an almost affectionate pat on the head. She gave the bruised, red haired girl, who had often been the bane of her existence, a light lipped smile which, utterly astonishingly, collapsed in on itself.

Mrs Spencer had already embraced Lily with alacrity and now the older sister had the younger sister in a firm handclasp.

"Mrs Spencer, this is Anne Shirley," Mrs Cadbury pushed the girl forward, or she might remain there, clinging onto Tom, forever.

Anne gave a wavering smile and a charming curtsy.

"How do you do, Mrs Spencer."

Mrs Spencer looked at the girl blankly. "A welcoming committee?" she sighed, clearly exasperated. "We really _must_ be going, you know."

"Yes, of course. You only need to sign the papers," Mrs Cadbury tried to remain patient.

"I thought I might at least get a look at the boy first."

"Boy?" now Mrs Cadbury was herself perplexed. "This here is the girl for your other couple. Anne Shirley. She was eleven last March, very bright and – "

"Mrs Cadbury, for goodness' sake! We really don't have time for this. I must be taking the _boy_ I requested with me. He needs to be on the train with me so they can pick him up at the station at Bright River."

"But you made no request for a boy!"

"I most certainly did. What would a farming couple do with a girl, I wonder? I am going back across to Prince Edward Island, Mrs Cadbury. Not onwards to Toronto!"

Both women looked at one another in amazement.

"The other couple want a boy?" Mrs Cadbury was losing all color, and after the events of the past week she had little enough to start with.

"Most definitely, Mrs Cadbury. They are _expecting_ him. They have made all sorts of provisions. They are due to start the harvest, or due to start the planting or… honestly, I'm not really up with the particulars. All I know is they have need of a boy. They requested me bring them a boy. Do you _have_ a boy for me to take then, Mrs Cadbury?"

"They don't want we because I'm not a boy?" Anne, who had been following the extraordinary exchange, now uttered with as tragic a tone as ever heard from her.

"Hush, please, Anne, just for a moment!" Mrs Cadbury was thinking quickly. There had been some mix up, some grave misunderstanding, and it was disaster heaped upon disaster. If this newest situation ever came to light she would be clutching her own carpet bag on her way out. She would be a laughing stock from Halifax to Charlottetown. And possibly Toronto.

And then there was the Inspector.

Mrs Cadbury had vowed she would look after the two of them. She had no idea how long until he would return. She was relieved to know that at least one child would be out of his reach, and she would do her best with the other. She could place one of them herself, perhaps, but not both.

"A boy, you say? Yes indeed, we have a boy," she now determined. "Twelve years old, and as hard a worker as I've ever come across. _Tom!_ " she turned to him behind her.

"Yes, Ma'am?" Tom looked at her, clearly bewildered.

"Come here please!"

Tom came towards them annoyingly slowly; whether it was due to his injuries or a new, wary reticence she couldn't tell. He came to stand beside Anne, looking at his comrade, increasingly aghast.

"This is Thomas Caruthers, Mrs Spencer."

Mrs Spencer's nerves and her patience were now more than a little frayed. She barely glanced at the tall, fair headed boy.

"Yes, yes, fine. Let's please be off now!"

Several things then happened simultaneously. The little party of new and established Spencers began to move off. Mrs Cadbury signalled over Tom's head for Matron to gather his possessions, post haste. Anne and Tom clutched one another in a slow, awful dawning comprehension, and were thus hustled out the doors as one, together.

The cab was outside, waiting. Mrs Spencer was already arranging for the stowing of Lily's bag and having the driver assist the girls up into the carriage. Mrs Cadbury was talking in a low, fervent voice to the two young people just ahead of her.

"Anne, I'm sorry. There was a mistake. The couple wanted a boy all along. Exactly as Tom is here – he is of the perfect age and temperament. I will do my best for you, Anne, but for now you need to let Tom go instead."

"No, Ma'am," it was Tom who made dispute. "It's Anne's place. Anne's family."

"Tom, _listen._ Unfortunately it was never Anne's family. You _must_ go. They need a boy and you _yourself_ need a family."

"Please, Mrs Cadbury. It's not my place to go!"

"The _Inspector_ has _made_ it your place!" Mrs Cadbury hissed, making both Tom and Anne look like identical deer with their wide, appalled eyes. "I cannot protect you both! One has to go! I will see to Anne, Tom, but _you_ must go! _Now!_ "

Matron caught them, red faced and wheezing, holding a suspiciously neat bundle tied together as if a swag. Mrs Cadbury's eyes darted to Tom, furious.

"It _appears_ you have been quite ready to go after all!" she accused.

Tom paled, and quickly changed tack. Anne looked on at him, heartbroken.

"Mrs Cadbury, what if we were to _both_ go?" Tom now pleaded desperately. "I could work the farm, do all the jobs outside, and Anne would help out in the house."

Anne nodded her quick approval.

"Tom Caruthers!" Mrs Cadbury's own patience was at an end. "We may be a charitable institution, but we are not yet _giving_ children away!"

" _Mrs Cadbury!_ " Mrs Spencer called down from the cab. "We must leave _now_!"

Anne looked around wildly. Tom held fast to her. She was now holding onto both him and the carpet bag, and one of them would need to be relinquished before her strength gave way. Mrs Cadbury was beginning to tug at Tom, trying to extract him from her so that she could get him into the cab. Matron had thrown his little swag of belongings and his one jacket up to the driver, and was now trying to push him as Mrs Cadbury pulled. Tom continued his protests and his iron grip. The driver began to shout about ferries. Mrs Spencer began to shrill hysterically. Little Violet Spencer began to cry violently. Littlest Lily Jones Spencer, for the first time ever and in some sort of new sisterly bonding, began to do the same.

It was pandemonium.

Tom would never let go of her, Anne knew. They would both miss this family and never get another one. He would be left to a half life in some factory; half starved, overworked, broken. Instead, she had a quick flash of him – tall, strong, ruddy with health, cared for. Safe.

"Tom, _you_ must go!" Anne sobbed. " _Please!_ Do it for me! _Take your chance!_ "

Tom looked at her, blue eyes wide, stricken.

"Anne?" he cried.

" _Do_ it, Tom! _Go_!"

His mouth opened feebly, and his hands relaxed their grip. It was enough to have Mrs Cadbury grab a hold of him, and together both she and Matron had him, and then the driver took an arm and hauled him up, depositing him roughly onto the seat.

The driver lost no time standing on ceremony. He whipped at the horses and the cab gave a lurch.

" _Find me,_ Anne!" Tom shouted down at her, his eyes wild as they locked with hers. " _Find me!"_

All she could do was nod, helplessly, as the horses leapt and the cab thundered away.

Mrs Cadbury watched it go, her relief turning to horror. They hadn't signed any papers for him.

Anne watched it go, exhausted and empty and spent. She dropped the carpet bag. It fell to the ground, immediately and disloyally disgorging its meagre contents.

Two little wooden figures tumbled out to lie at her feet, their pale, perfect forms glinting back up at her.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

" _ **Oh, don't cast up the follies of my youth to me." Anne of the Island**_ **(Ch. 27)**

 _Thank you to everyone for your enthusiasm for and interest in Tom. As is obvious, his own story is only just beginning._


	10. Chapter 10 Winds of Hope and Memory

_Thank you to each and every one of you for your wonderful, reassuring reactions to the previous chapter, which was such a hard one to write, and such a hard one, I know, to read. Your support and generosity are treasured._

 _With particular thanks to elizasky, as always, and a special shout out to reviewer G._

 _There will be a time, I'm sure, when I don't tie you up with such long chapters! I hope you can wade through all these words with me today._

* * *

 **Chapter Ten**

 **Winds of Hope and Memory**

* * *

Gilbert indeed hoped that Anne would be proud of his magnanimous response to the literally hundreds of loving little touches his mother had bestowed in the five days since his return home. Her words rang prophetically in his ears every time the esteemed Mrs Blythe paused to tousle his hair or squeeze his arm; he could hardly control his grin when she came and impulsively hugged him as he sat for breakfast that morning, and her priceless look when he innocently (and teasingly) suggested he may have to get a very short haircut as befitting his new _college man_ status would stay with him for some time.

Mostly, though, he hoped they understood, both his mother and his father, through his actions if not through a sentimental gush of words, that he had a new appreciation and gratitude for not only their love and support but perhaps their very existence; he still nursed the quiet hope that, one day, he may introduce them to the very young lady who had so affected this new awareness.

He spent too long thinking about what that young lady was doing all the way over in Bolingbroke; she could be in Alberta for all the good it did him. The very long walks he had indeed begun, trudging ridiculously through the sleet or snow or both, could hardly suppress the new restlessness he felt at not being near her, which joined the now all too familiar longing jostling for permanent residence in his heart.

* * *

Adela Blythe supposed she would stop missing her son eventually, and thought that she had coped extraordinarily well these three months after being so spoilt as to have him home the past two years, but having Gilbert again in the house had made it rather difficult to restrain herself. She seemed to be in a suspended state regarding him and those missing three years in Alberta; he had come back to her a young man already, charming, confident and cocky, and very adverse to hugs, as she had indeed feared. Just as she had felt he was _hers_ again he was off to Charlottetown, an excited fish in a much bigger pond, and she saw immediately that spark of ambition flare in him; she knew, even then, that he would be no farmer like his father. Friends of his like Fred Wright, good and quiet and steady, were beginning to turn their attention to the land; Gilbert's hazel eyes looked beyond, ever seeking, to some far-off horizon, and she couldn't even feel too sorry, for she had been the one to encourage him to search there.

So now this boy who was really a man was back to sit at their table and stare a little mournfully out the window of the kitchen to the fields and the orchard beyond; his broadened, football-honed shoulders seemed to fill a room; his height, giving him the edge even on John now; the house was suddenly too small for him, and so too, she suspected, was Avonlea.

But that wasn't the reason for her watchful eyes now, and Adela hugged the little secret to her, just as she had hugged him so impulsively over it that very morning at breakfast; whilst he supped with John and talked over the coming plans for the farm in the new year, she had been upstairs in his room tidying and changing the bedding, and worrying briefly that Gilbert had found religion, and a papist one at that; or that he had been cornered in the village by Moody Spurgeon MacPherson and encouraged to undertake some strange and radical conversion.

Why else for all that was holy – and pardoning the terrible and fitting pun – would Gilbert be sleeping with a Catholic saint under his pillow?

She hadn't meant to find it, naturally, and of course she wasn't rifling through his possessions the way that Charlie Sloane's mother was shamefully rumoured to, searching for evidence of what was really going on over there in Kingsport, but it was there, staring back at her, clear as the new day itself. The lovely polished frame; the carefully chosen image; the meaningful words on the back. The single, solitary name.

 _Anne._

It took some moments for Adela to fit the pieces together. And when she finally did she had to grin to herself in amazement. There was a girl, some faceless, unknown girl, up at Redmond. She knew something of Gilbert's secret ambitions; she certainly knew her Shakespeare.

Adela couldn't help but like her already.

* * *

Gilbert had made the trek to Fred's twice now in the quiet lull between Christmas and the new year, and was both bemused and vaguely annoyed to find that both times he was off visiting at Orchard Slope. Not that he wanted to deny Fred the lovely and manifold charms of Diana Barry in any measure, particularly when they had been so long admired by him, but you'd think a man could have his best friend on hand occasionally when he was undergoing a crisis.

* * *

Gilbert trekked back glumly, trying to at least build up to a jog, even with all his layers, so that he might combine it with some half hearted training ahead of when the football season resumed. He had decided that Christmas was a dire time of year and hated himself for wanting to wish the next week away so that he could be once more safely ensconced at Redmond. He couldn't ever remember a time since they'd come back from Alberta when he had felt so at a loss.

He stomped back into the house, shaking the snow off his boots, to find his mother right in the middle of the week's baking. Adela paused in astonishment to see him; she had really bargained on having the house to herself for a few hours, and had felt leave enough to make as much mess as she pleased. She put a floury hand to her cheek, a little exasperated, and Gilbert gave her then such a look of pained consternation that she really felt he might be coming down with something.

"Was Fred not there?" Adela asked.

"No, Ma," Gilbert replied grumpily, taking a seat and giving a very exaggerated eye roll. "He was at Diana's. _Again._ "

Adela bit back a smile at his affronted disappointment. She wiped her hands down on her apron.

"You just missed your father I'm afraid. He's gone into town to place some orders."

A theatrical sigh escaped. "That's OK, Ma."

"I can leave you to it if you have any study you need to tackle," Adela suggested hopefully.

Gilbert's brow darkened. "No, I've not much at this stage." _Only one hundred and fifty four sonnets to review, actually._

Adela was not unused to taciturn men, and so she quietly finished the last of several apple pies and set aside further pastry for the next day. She put dishes on the bench to be seen to later.

"Like a tea, love?"

"Yes, thanks, Ma."

She could feel Gilbert's eyes on her as she prepared the brew, biding her time.

"Ma, would you mind if I asked you a few questions?" he finally attempted. "Forgive me, but they are, well, ah… of a personal nature."

Adela Blythe, caught unawares by her son's now rather sheepish look, immediately presumed the worst.

"Darling, surely you would rather… wait to talk to your father? That is to say… _man to man_?"

Goodness knows John had already had this talk with their son years ago, before he left for Queen's. Adela really did not want to speculate on what part of that _talk_ might need further clarification. She thought, errantly, of the saintly picture upstairs.

Gilbert looked at his mother curiously for a moment, before his hazel eyes, such replicas of her own, widened in comprehension, and he blushed furiously and rather endearingly. He well remembered his _man to man_ conversation with his father all those years ago, embarrassing and painful for both of them, with rather an emphasis on the responsibilities of a gentleman and the broad physical mechanics of things than of feelings and emotions. But it was perhaps the _emotional_ side of things he really needed assistance with now.

"Mother! _No!_ Goodness, no… I… I… just wanted to talk to you a little about _courting!"_

Adela Blythe sighed in relief, hoping _courting_ wasn't being used as a fancy new college euphemism for something else entirely. Traditional courting advice she could gladly tackle. She had been longing for even a hint of an interest in proper courting from Gilbert, and not all these flighty flirtations with any number of girls that seemed not to lead anywhere at all. She had lived in fear that he would become entangled with a silly Dresden doll like Ruby Gillis, or even worse, one of the dreadful Pye girls, and the bright talent and burning ambition in him would be slowly snuffed out. She wanted so much more for him… and she wanted him to be _with_ someone who wanted so much more for him.

She came to sit opposite her handsome, still blushing son, her hands coming to rest on her chin, a small smile emerging, as if a girl ready to settle in for a gossip. "Courting, darling? she prompted gently.

"Er…" Gilbert frowned, "I just wanted to ask you whether… that is… about you and dad. And why you decided on _him_ and not Mr Barry."

Adela's eyes widened. Of all the things she thought he would come out with, this was definitely the most surprising. "Well…" she began. "That's rather a long conversation. I think it will require the addition of biscuits as well as our tea."

Gilbert smiled up at his mother as she gave him a wider smile of her own and an arch of her dark eyebrow. She was still a beauty; tall, slim, with rich brown hair, not as dark as his own or his father's, and an elegance that often belied her own modest surroundings. From her had come his love of literature and learning (although he had to give his father points on Shakespeare) and, perhaps, some of her own unfulfilled dreams had been taken up by himself. Gilbert could see, with growing adult clarity, that his smart, sensitive, spirited mother would have been a very good match in many ways for the tall, gentle and still distinguished George Barry.

"Well…" Adela sat again, passing him his tea and placing the biscuits companionably between them. "When we moved to Carmody, I was already seventeen, and my parents were elderly and rather keen to have me settled. They gave me leave to go to all of the dances from here to Charlottetown I think, in order that I may meet as many eligible young men as possible. They were happy for me to cast my net _wide_ …" she gave a smile of chagrin, "as long as I caught _something_ in it at the end."

Gilbert looked a little horrified; he didn't want to imagine his mother being flung into the company of all manner of men in this way, even if he knew there was a happy outcome.

"That's how I met quite a few of the Avonlea lot at the time … it's how I met George Barry. _And_ your father. They were friends from school of course, and neighbours, so they went about together with a few others…" Adela took a contemplative sip of her tea; Gilbert fortified himself with a biscuit. "George was all mannerly charm and politeness, as you can imagine. Your father… well, not so much."

Adela's smile was fond.

"Dad never was that big on dances…" Gilbert mused.

"No. _Definitely_ not," Adela's smile turned into a grin. "But he was very good at glowering from the sidelines."

" _Dad? Glower?"_ Gilbert was amusingly disbelieving.

"Oh yes. All manner of glowering, as if he thought all of us slightly ridiculous. So it was quite a pleasure to glower right back and be swept up by George Barry, who was the catch of the county at the time, you know."

"I know," Gilbert grinned himself, amused by her flash of pride.

Adela decided to quicken her reminiscences. "So George Barry and I started courting. My parents, as you can imagine, were delighted. George and I had a lot in common. He was well read and rather debonair. Generous and friendly and obliging. And I doubt he's ever glowered in his life."

Gilbert rather doubted it himself; he certainly knew Diana's calm disposition was not from her mother.

"Where was dad in all this?" Gilbert had lost track of the number of biscuits, and his mother went to brew more tea.

"Nursing his wounded pride over a love gone wrong years before," Adela turned back, and for a moment both of them were quiet, knowing snatches of that particular story. "And…" Adela grinned again, "sometimes being our chaperone."

" _Ma!"_ Gilbert's expression was duly horrified. "That's _terrible_!"

Adela laughed too delightedly.

Gilbert fiddled with his tea cup. He waited for her to sit down again.

"Ma… did Mr Barry propose?" he looked down at the table, his face flushing unexpectedly.

"I believe… he was very close to it," Adela responded carefully.

"Were you thinking of saying _yes_?"

"I believe… I was very close to it," she smiled when he looked back up at her.

His mother's long silence then made Gilbert fear he'd finally overstepped the invisible line he felt he'd been dancing on regarding the entire conversation; but then came her soft sigh, as she considered her response.

"Yes, Gilbert, to be truthful I've got to say it," his mother admitted. "George Barry was and remains a kind, gentlemanly, dear man, and a good friend, insomuch as a married man _can_ be friendly with a married lady," she smiled a little, a mite wryly. "I had a lovely time being courted by him, and enjoyed his company, and saw that he could give me a very comfortable life. A very _safe, calm,_ comfortable life," she gave a pointed look at her son, "and if I ultimately wanted a safe, calm, unruffled existence, he would have done perfectly well for me, even if I, perhaps, a little less for him." Gilbert, his hazel eyes on her own, felt his lips quirk.

"Now you really must listen to what I am trying to say here, darling," Adela grew more serious. "After a time, I began to notice things that were a little troubling to me. I have always been rather firm in my opinions, as you well know, and have always enjoyed a little lively debate. I don't mind being proved wrong if a better argument or perspective is offered. But George Barry never wanted to have a disagreement, never wanted to question anything, never wanted the slightest confrontation. He had had an easy, calm life and wanted to keep it that way. But that's a false view and expectation, Gilbert; there _has_ to be disagreement at some point, of challenge, or how do we grow, how do we learn? And I really tried to puzzle it out for a while, and I came to the conclusion that George hadn't ever _fought_ for anything in his life. Through no real fault of his own, everything had been handed to him. Don't get me wrong – he works just as hard as the next fellow – but he hadn't had to fight for anything, he hadn't ever had to go without and dream of something better; he'd never had to risk losing something he desperately wanted. It had made him calm, certainly, but it had also made him _complacent._ And so I wondered, after a time, if he would become complacent… about _me._ "

Adela gave him a look under her lashes, and then got up quickly to remake the tea. Gilbert shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

" _And,_ " she poured the water in the pot, "there was this friend of his, you see. The _glowering_ one."

Her back was turned to him, but Gilbert heard the smile in her voice.

"He said… Dad said once… that he quoted _Romeo and Juliet_ to you, and that's how he won you over."

Adela gave what passed for a ladylike guffaw. " _Did_ he now?" her expression was greatly amused. She carried the teapot over and repositioned herself opposite him. "That's rather a fine view of things for him to take."

She saw Gilbert's puzzlement.

"He definitely _referenced Romeo and Juliet,_ " she clarified, raising an eyebrow."He had to drop me home one time for George, as there was some sort of issue over at Orchard Place, and he barely said five words to me all the way back to Carmody, except for the last five minutes, when he accused me, calm as you like and with not a sign of a glower, but with a very annoying, smug expression, that I fancied myself as Juliet on her balcony, enraptured by the fact that I was enjoying this great romance, but that it had nothing to do with _love_ itself at all."

Gilbert's jaw dropped.

"Well, you can imagine how well _that_ went over," Adela shook her head. "And I gave him a few choice words in reply, what's more. And then… I went home and cried myself to sleep, because he was right, and I was _furious_."

Gilbert was rather incredulous now, and they were definitely into heretofore undisclosed parts of this particular narrative.

"The next day, I went and broke it off with George Barry," Adela remembered quietly. "And then I marched straight here, demanding to see your father. He was out the back, at the edge of the orchard, leaning over the fence. His back was to me. His hair was all beautifully wild, like yours gets, as if he had hardly slept the previous night … and when he heard me he turned… and … I read his face. It was…" here Adela faltered, and the heat lit her cheeks, and Gilbert was transfixed. "It was so full of passion and sorrow and regret … I had never seen the like of it from George, ever. You see, he – your dad - wouldn't have stood in my way, Gilbert, if George Barry had been what I wanted. But once we both knew that he wasn't…"

His mother trailed off. Adela let the memory take her back there. Gilbert sat, a little stunned. And his second tea had grown cold.

Adela recovered herself, and she regarded him very directly.

"Gilbert, love, your Dad prodded me, and if was painful, but I needed it. I had prodded _him_ too – he is not a scowler by nature as you know. I guess we'll going on prodding each other forever. That isn't such a bad thing, because you need a partner through life with a little bit of a fire in their belly – even if that fire is sometimes directed at _you._ Because that means that they care. It means that they have _passion._ It's an important word to remember – and it's something that most people are scared of. They think too much passion will lead to the downfall of civilisation as we know it. But it needn't be loud, shouted from the rooftops. Passion can be quiet and tender, too. Passion is… well, it's a wonderful thing when two people feel it equally and they use it to support one another and bind themselves together. Gilbert, my darling, I beg of you – don't settle for anyone who doesn't make you feel it, and can give it to you in return."

Gilbert had stilled completely, his hazel eyes wide, and Adela had to suppress a sudden grin at his stricken countenance. Although he looked the very image of John when younger, she saw both of them in him, although she rather thought the methodical side of him – John's side – was the one busily trying to sort through all this current new information. She stood and went round to him, giving him a quick kiss on the top of his head and then ruffling those dark, beloved curls affectionately.

Gilbert cleared his throat. "Ah… thank you very much, Ma," he managed, in a voice he didn't quite recognise as his own.

"You're welcome, darling."

They could both hear John returning from town with the buggy, with rather impeccable timing. Gilbert cast wary eyes to his father whom he could see through the window unshackling the horse and leading it to the barn, as if, with all this talk of _passion_ in the air, he quite expected him to come back bursting through the door, sweeping his mother up into his arms and embarrassing the life out of the lot of them.

"Ah… I think I might hit the books after all…" Gilbert stood slowly.

"Fine, darling…" her eyes followed him, hiding her smile, watching him drift distractedly up the stairs.

She thought how John would love to hear choice parts of this conversation recounted later, as they snuggled down for the night together, as she fondled his own dark, greying curls. How he would chuckle deeply in that way of his that she loved, and that beguiling glint of mischief would show in his eyes – the one that he always claimed _she_ put back there.

* * *

If Gilbert looked hard enough out of his bedroom window he might see a shimmer of light coming across the fields from Orchard Slope, like the last blinding flare of the sun before it dipped beyond the horizon. All, however, was in darkness now. He had spent the past seven years staring out, to this same view, from this same desk, and felt he was seeing it for the first time. He and Diana had occasionally joked, growing up, about being almost-siblings; there were few stories in Avonlea, even going back to their parents' time, that hadn't already passed into local folklore.

He reflected on his mother's generous retelling of her story and what it meant for him; he had asked how she had decided between two good men, and typically instead she had given him a mediation on love and connection. And _passion._ The word ricocheted around his head, resonating, and he couldn't dislodge it. Two months ago he wouldn't have understood what she had been talking about; now he traced her words in his own recent experiences and knew the ancient truth of them; when he had been with Maisie, he felt nothing; when he had been with Anne, he burned.

What would life have been like if he had been born Gilbert Barry? It would have been a life, not exactly of privilege, but certainly of ease and opportunity. Or not? Would he have been able to pursue his studies, undaunted and unobstructed, to now be halfway through them already? Or would George Barry, so much more tied to tradition, have insisted he take over the farm? In either scenario, he would not have been in a Freshman English class this last term, and he would not have met Anne.

The thought made him shudder.

Perhaps he would just happily accept the near miss, and remain grateful to be Gilbert Blythe. And, really, George Barry had enjoyed many advantages, but he had lost nearly all of his hair.

* * *

"Are you having a nice time here, Miss Anne?" Phil questioned worryingly.

"I am having a _lovely_ time, Miss Phil!" Anne reassured warmly.

The two young ladies were briskly walking the handsome streets of Bolingbroke, two days after Christmas Day, in that gentle, dreamy drift towards the new year, arms linked and worried and reassuring smiles in place respective to their current philosophies.

"You know, I've never actually walked some of these streets in my life!" Phil mused suddenly, laughing. "Isn't that scandalous? You're introducing me to my own town, Anne!"

Anne's smile was teasing. "It's no wonder, Phil, you've had so little opportunity. All those gentleman callers up at Mount Holly! You can barely escape your own house!"

Phil tittered, obviously pleased. "There _have_ been rather a lot of them this time round," she smiled very broadly. "I am very relieved to know that absence _does_ make the heart grow fonder. Poor Alec seems to have wasted away in grief and longing over my being all the way to Kingsport. He was not pleased to learn of Mr Summerfield at _all._ Though _Alonzo_ seems to have only come to stare rather wonderingly at _you_ , Anne! I'd throw him over completely for his defection if he didn't have such a fine nose."

Now it was Anne's turn to laugh. "If he was staring _wonderingly_ , Phil, he was no doubt trying to make sense of the _hair._ "

"Don't you believe it, Miss Shirley! I'm almost glad you have to visit this very good friend of yours and will miss the New Year's Ball. I can't have you stealing everyone away in this manner, and right from under my own clearly inferior nose! It's rather enough that you have such a very lovely nose yourself, _and_ the Freshman President to boot, without all this – "

" _Pardon me_ , Phil? What did you say?"

Phil slowed their pace, and gave a knowing smile. "I was remarking on your lovely nose."

"Thank you very much…" Anne replied distractedly.

"And remarking on the affections of our Freshman President, which still seem to be very decidedly focussed in your direction."

Their pace had slowed to a snail's. Anne's cheeks were very red in the winter chill.

"Phil, _honestly._ We've been over this very old ground. Gilbert and I are _friends,_ certainly. That is a well established and gratifying fact. The Football Dance was only a gesture of – "

"Oh, Anne! I'm not taking about any football dance and chivalry and all the rest of it! That _is_ old ground. I'm talking about the very day we left college before Christmas, Gilbert coming to me practically tearing his adorable hair out thinking some terrible fate would befall you whilst you were in my keeping. I'm talking about that new little book of sonnets you practically moon over. I'm talking about you looking back at me now with a color to match your own fetchingly hued hair!"

They had stopped completely.

"It was a Christmas gift…" Anne defended weakly.

"Of course it was," Phil made dry reply.

"We're _studying_ them in class after the break…"

Phil's smile was fond. "Of _course_ you are."

The girls resumed their pace, still a good deal slower than before, their steps in time to the jumble of thoughts clattering about Anne's head.

"He came to you?" Anne asked quietly. "He was _tearing his hair out_?"

Phil's smile was arch, but her tone was kind. "Virtually every curl."

Anne gnawed on her lower lip at this, digesting this revelation slowly.

"You know, Miss Anne," Phil mused carefully. "To have a good friend is a wonderful thing. I'm so glad you are gathering all the friends you deserve around you. You are a beautiful friend yourself. But sometimes the idea of a _friend_ is really a convenient cover for something else, for them _and_ for you. It's a cloak to protect yourself with. But really, would it be so bad to take the cloak off and see if you really need it?"

The flash came to Anne of Gilbert's embrace before he had left her; the surprise and the sweetness of it, but also the heat and, dare she even think, the _hunger_ of it too. The too-vivid memory of it burned her cheeks raw.

Phil almost reached out to hug her, to see those big grey eyes turn to her, full of such confusion.

"But Phil… what if the _cloak_ is the only thing that _is_ protecting you? Do you risk taking it off only to make a fool of yourself, and losing its warmth forever?"

"There's a very low risk of that, with everyone, I guess…" Phil had to think on this for herself, too. She wondered if stripping her own cloak off at every opportunity, dancing around baring herself openly, was actually its own form of self protection, reversed. "But the cloak might become awfully heavy for you, honey. I'd hate to see it smother you."

Anne gave a mangled smile. They continued quietly on their way.

This section of town didn't see nearly as many visitors as those thronging the shops and tea rooms of the town centre. Anne wondered if her parents would even recognise any of it now. Would they have been pleased to have made this bustling place their permanent family home? Had they had other plans down the road once their little family was established? Would they have moved away eventually to experience the charm of a simpler life out in the countryside?

That sort of thinking wasn't really going to help her. The thought of what was going on this very moment out in a particular part of the countryside, fringed with sea, the island of her many imaginings… well, it was virtually unbearable.

Anne knew there was not time to hear back before they all returned to Kingsport. And it was the sort of thing you couldn't very well say in a letter at any rate. And yet, a letter is all _she_ had had, herself, to offer; a letter written with tears and trembling, of lost years and wondering, of the old, dread fear and the tiny new seed of hope.

"Well, here we are, Miss Anne."

Phil's words reached out to her, and she looked up at the gate before them, the iron old and slightly rusted, and the sign above, looking ornate and yet feeling starkly austere; _Bolingbroke Cemetery._

"Would you like me to come with you?" Phil asked gently, perhaps already knowing the answer.

Anne shook her head. "Thank you, but I'll be fine."

"Then I'll just wait here, on this thoughtfully placed bench, till you return. I might count my beaux to pass the time."

"I won't be gone as long as _that,_ Phil," Anne was able to smile.

She took a breath, and passed through the gates, which groaned back at her in annoyance. She headed for the far _"green corner",_ to the joint resting place _"where her father and mother were buried, and left on their grave the white flowers she carried."_ *

* * *

Gilbert grinned at his image in the glass, fired by a renewed sense of purpose as he surveyed himself dressed for the New Year dance, in aid of the village church. He fiddled a final time with his plain black tie, vowing to never wear that revolting shade of red again, and imagined the time he would buy another, in a shade reminiscent of new apple green, in Anne's honour.

He had made his meticulous plans and now his path felt so clear and he so confident in it he was almost giddy. It would be a new year; that meant new resolutions on every front. He would never mope around, despondent and directionless, again. He was Freshman President; he was football team captain; he was achieving high honours across the board already.

He had Shakespeare. It was practically a family tradition. He would have her grey eyes staring at him in wonder as he wooed her one hundred and fifty four different ways. She would fairly sense the _passion_ pulsing within him. He would hide behind the curtain of friendship no longer.

* * *

Gilbert leapt down eagerly from their buggy, watching as his father carefully handed his mother down, looking on intently as his parents exchanged a soft look before they walked with him a ways along and into the town hall, which was already full of music, noise and clatter and the excited yelps of greeting which drifted out into the frosty night air. Inside it was thronging; the whole of Avonlea must be here. He must find Fred and have a proper heart to heart with him; he had only barely caught him the other day, after many attempts, and he realised with some regret that he had seen him less here at home than he had in Kingsport.

Secondly, he needed to find one of the girls – preferably Diana – as Ruby would be too distracted by the men in general and Jane too distracted by her visiting beau in particular, in order to ascertain some information about a certain mutual acquaintance. He felt sure that Diana would have had a letter from Anne by now – they had launched an immediate fond friendship almost from the time they had met – and if he could at least have some news of her, second hand though it may be, it couldn't help but bolster him further.

Gilbert scanned the busy, bustling crowd, oblivious to the admiring looks he still received from the younger ladies, who were as impressed by the dashing college man as they had ever been by the handsome schoolteacher, but somewhat disappointed by his far quieter presence in town on this occasion and the frankly baffling lack of a date for the dance. Gilbert paused to shake hands and chat briefly with the new young schoolmaster who had taken over from him when he resigned to go off to Redmond; waved to cleric-in-training Moody Spurgeon MacPherson, who appeared to be the improbable escort of one Josie Pye; and saw, frowning, that both the Wrights and now the Barrys had finally arrived but that there was absolutely no sign of either of their children.

 _Where the heck was Fred?_

And then, through the door, he came; shiny as a gold button in the newest of new suits, arm held out reverently to the winsome dark haired beauty on his arm, both of them wearing identical expressions of delight tinged with embarrassment.

Gilbert watched, amazed, as they were both swamped by various townsfolk, and it took him several moments to realise what was so immediately evident to everyone else; Fred and Diana had arrived together. Good God, he'd gone and done it.

He'd asked to court her.

Gilbert had nursed his suspicions as to Fred's intentions ever since his college's Christmas dance. His friend had been frustratingly discreet on the subject, only to infer that the evening had gone _very very well,_ which from Fred was a virtual admission of rampaging passion. And there was that thought again, that loaded word. As the crowd around the entrance dispersed and the first dance began Fred led Diana out, and although they weren't physically the most natural match in the world – Diana was as tall as Fred and clearly he still had two left feet – Gilbert couldn't help but note the pleased, proud look he gave her, and the blushing smile she gave him in return, and something in him envied the new, intangible understanding between them.

* * *

Diana felt flushed already, and couldn't believe the crush of bodies around her. It made her long for the respectful quiet of the Christmas dance at Fred's college, when she had looked at the gentle man whose arm she had taken and began to see herself as he saw her, and something in her heart was altered.

Fred rather reminded her of her own father, in a way, but he had his own quiet strength about him, never more so than tonight, before they had arrived at the hall. She'd had a rather melancholy Christmas, truth be told, with Anne's tears, her horrifying wail – and the equal horror of her story – travelling with her. She doubted she would ever have Anne's own strength. She had, however, fought her own little battle just to be in Kingsport and fancied returning home rather triumphant – hadn't she shown everyone she could do it, be away and flourish, just as the others had? – but back with her family, particularly her mother, she was merely little Diana again, a bit hopeless, a little bit behind, and expected to wait around undemandingly until they fashioned a husband for her.

It made her furious.

It wasn't as if she didn't consider herself as not wanting a husband. The irony was she wanted everything they themselves seemed to want _for_ her, but she wanted it on her terms, in her own time, and of her own choosing.

It was really as if they didn't understand her at all.

 _Fred_ understood her, though, and the thought of that was at first rather startling. But he had lived his life in a similar vein, in the shadow of everyone's low expectations of him, and he knew how it rankled.

So Fred had started to visit Orchard Slope, and they had laughed quietly together at this clear affront to her mother and her mother's plans for her, but it was only a visit, surely, and no one could take exception to that.

They walked together in the lush garden made cold and desolate by the snow, but he remarked how beautiful it looked, under its crystalized white blanket, and she smiled at the unlikely poetry escaping from his soul. And then he claimed he saw the same crystals in her hair, and he looked at her a particular way, and she realised with a start it was how he had always looked at her, ever since he was those few years ahead of her in school. And she found she couldn't really look at _him._ And it was quite ridiculous, because it was _Fred._

On his second visit he appeared more at ease than _she_ was. They took tea in the parlour. She blundered about so hopelessly she reminded herself of Anne in front of Gilbert that time in Kingsport, and that made her blunder about rather more. She was annoyed and flabbergasted at these new sensations in equal measure. Fred appeared completely nonplussed, but his eyes were searching as he regarded her, and if she was able to make real eye contact at all she would have seen a small, little hopeful smile hidden on his perfectly pleasant but unremarkable face.

The third time, her mother was out visiting, and her father was down the far end of the farm near the orchard, and it wouldn't be proper for him to stay, really, with only the maid and Minnie May to chaperone. It really wouldn't. But then the maid brought tea, automatically, and so it would have been rude for him to go.

He asked if he may accompany her to the church dance at new year. She would be going anyway, so she replied it could hardly be such a scandal to her parents. He replied, in that occasional sly way of his, what a shame that was, and it was a wonder they couldn't think of something that _would_ cause a scandal. Diana's eyes were agog at this boldness, laughing delightedly, thinking he might have temporarily swapped bodies with Gilbert. And then he turned _very_ bold, and asked if he might kiss her, and she rather stopped laughing at that point.

Tonight he had come for her a little early, as the maid was helping finish her hair, and he asked to see her parents beforehand. There was a frigid feeling in the air as she descended the stairs, and she came upon them just in time to hear Fred say how he admired and respected her enormously, and thought they got on very well together, and that, with Diana's assent and their approval, that he wished to court her.

Her father was quiet but grim; her mother was astounded. What a pretty thing had come to pass, her mother was arguing, that _Fred_ _Wright,_ who couldn't even seem to manage his own family's farm, now had his eye on _theirs._

Fred responded, in a far more respectful tone than her mother had managed or deserved, that he had not the slightest interest in their farm, thank you; that his interest was in she, Diana.

The stabbing reply – weren't they one and the same?

Diana's cheeks reddened at the meanness of her mother's words. She could see the indignant red flush creep up the back of Fred's neck. He drew himself up to his not-so-considerable height, and he stood his ground.

"No, Ma'am," Fred's voice barely wavered. "They are not the same to _me_. One is precious and priceless. The other is just a farm."

Exasperated, her mother threw up her hands and suggested that he await Diana's verdict on his suit, which she fully expected to be as negatively received as she had done.

Diana's own clear, newly determined voice came to them from her unnoticed position behind. Her mother would be most displeased with her decision.

* * *

So with everything happening, Diana had barely had a chance to even attempt her most important errand. It's not as if she could commandeer the sled herself and go searching the countryside. And now, even if they caught up tonight, it would all be so horribly rushed; they would all be packing to return to Kingsport tomorrow, and leaving the following day. So she danced and chatted and smiled with genuine happiness; but it was tempered all the while by that tiny little dread; of the letter waiting impatiently in her purse.

* * *

Gilbert finally caught Fred, ironically enough, at the refreshments table. Charlie had his ear about something or other; Fred's eyes followed Diana as she chatted to some of the girls. Pris had come over for the dance, staying with Ruby for two nights before travelling back with all of them, and the two flaxen haired ladies flanked Diana across the other side of the room, all three in earnest conversation, only occasionally interrupted by a giggling glance in their direction.

"So this is how it's going to be from here on," Charlie remarked dolefully. "Them gathering together, laughing at us from afar."

Gilbert and Fred exchanged a bemused glance at his general air of tragedy.

"Cheer up, Charlie," Gilbert slapped him on the back. "If we're lucky they might get to laugh at us up close as well."

Fred stifled a snort; Charlie took his grizzling leave and went in search of Moody.

Gilbert and Fred were left to grin at one another. Gilbert reached out and offered his hand, which Fred shook with the knowing enthusiasm of a man who had been hoping for this moment since he was still a boy.

"I thought you were intending to ask her back in Kingsport?" Gilbert ventured.

"I _was._ But I didn't fancy dealing with Mrs Barry by _letter_ either," Fred's grimace was expressive.

"She was that bad, then?"

"If you want to compare it to that one time when we ripped the axle off Father's buggy when we were fifteen and left the whole thing stuck in the mud for two days, claiming that vagabonds had stolen it, you might get a fair idea of proceedings."

Gilbert chuckled. "I had _completely_ forgotten about that!"

"My father hasn't. I still get the occasional warning."

Gilbert shook his head, still smiling, and took a glass of punch, looking over the rim of it back to Diana.

"What made you change your mind? About asking her?"

Fred's reply was eloquently simple.

"It was going to be the new year. I didn't want to start another one without her."

* * *

Gilbert caught up with the lady of the hour and claimed a dance with her. He tried not to think too much of any ulterior motives.

"I believe congratulations are in order," he grinned down at her as they waltzed.

"Thank you, Gilbert, but really, it's courting, not an engagement!" Diana smiled, but blushed all the same.

"Well, to Fred it's Christmas all over again."

Diana smiled ever wider.

"To think I've missed my chance, now…" he lamented dramatically.

Diana gave him a decidedly pointed look. "Yes, I wonder why _did_ you miss your chance?" her expression was all innocence.

His hazel eyes grew wide. "Well, Di, naturally it was understood you were far too good for me," he recovered smoothly.

Diana's smile was indulgent, but then she grew contemplative. "Actually, I believe I might know now."

"Oh?"

"Because of Fred," she smiled up at him, very sweetly.

Gilbert's cheeks warmed just a touch. "Well, he was my friend. And he's cared for you a very long time. I could hardly stand in the way of such devotion."

"Yes…" Diana wavered, looking down briefly. "I think I know he has."

"So no pressure on you there, then," Gilbert chuckled, and she couldn't help her own look of amusement.

"I guess you haven't heard from any of our other Kingsport acquaintances?" he nearly rolled his eyes at his own obviousness.

"Well, I hear Jane couldn't make it tonight because Harry Ingliss is taking her to a very special dinner at the hotel in White Sands…" Diana offered archly.

They all knew what _that_ meant.

"Well, good for her," Gilbert offered sincerely. He had always liked the straight forward, intelligent girl. Her mother, of course, here tonight as most of their parents' were, casting her eagle eye over proceedings, was quite another matter.

"Yes, indeed," Diana nodded, equally pleased.

"I do hope that Phil is enjoying herself back home…" he had given up on any semblance of dignity now.

Diana's smile was knowing. "I think Alec has she and her guest rather rushed of their feet with amusing outings. Or maybe that was Alonzo…"

Gilbert gave up, rolling his eyes. "Take pity on me, Di!"

Diana gave a very merry laugh. "She's had a very nice time, Gilbert. I think she's looking forward to getting back to Kingsport, though."

"Aren't we all," he responded dryly.

Diana couldn't disagree with _that_ after the events of earlier this evening. She looked over Gilbert's shoulder and was startled.

He had _come._ Always unobtrusive, despite his height, he could have been there five minutes or fifty, and one wouldn't have known. She cleared her suddenly dry throat, watching him pass quietly through the crowd, stopping to nod politely to older acquaintances or smile somewhat shyly at ones their own age. Gilbert noted her changed demeanour and followed her line of sight.

"Oh, hey!" he looked over. "There's someone I haven't seen in a while."

"Er, no…" Diana colored.

Gilbert caught his eye and nodded, smiling, and received a nod and a wave back.

"Actually, he'll be pretty pleased for you and Fred too, I should think," Gilbert reflected generously.

Diana felt as if someone had pummelled her in the chest.

"Yes, I'm sure…" she agreed distractedly.

The music had ended.

"Thank you, Gilbert. I… I think I might go and say hello to him. Before we up and leave again…"

"Sure, Diana. See you before things wind up tonight."

"Of course."

Diana was talking to _him_ but he could see her dark eyes on the tall, fair headed arrival, and she began to drift towards him before she turned back to Gilbert quickly.

"Gilbert?"

"Yes, Di?"

"Fred waited a very long time regarding _me_. Don't spend too long regarding _her."_

Diana's look was troublingly pensive now. He would not insult her or their friendship by pretending he didn't know what she meant.

He gave his old, confident smile.

"Don't worry, Diana. I don't intend to."

* * *

Gilbert caught up with Priscilla and Ruby next, before Ruby moved off to entertain yet another dance partner and Pris started to regale him with anecdotes from her less-than-stellar family Christmas.

Pris glimpsed a certain tall figure over his shoulder. He was getting a little tired of that.

"Who is Diana talking to?" Pris frowned. "Do I know him?"

Gilbert smiled at her. "How soon they forget…" he shook his head despairingly.

"Forget what?" Pris seemed genuinely confused.

"He only spent most of a Saturday in your first year over at Carmody, up the roof of your schoolhouse. That was after you begged us to come fix all your leaks and shingles when he'd finished helping me fix up the schoolhouse _here._ Don't you even remember?"

"Oh yes…" Pris breathed. "Of course! It's just that… he looks so _different._ "

Gilbert rolled his eyes. "It's called a _suit,_ Pris. Look, even I'm wearing one!"

She gave him her droll smile. "Don't tease, Gilbert! Do you think that… well… you could reintroduce us? I'd like to thank him, you know. I never felt one drop of water from me from above ever again!"

"Of course I can…" he smiled. "That's if I _remember…_ "

They would cross over to see him, but Diana had him in a very earnest conversation by the doors; this was no mere hello. He wondered what Di was doing, actually; she was friendly with him, obviously – they were all _friendly_ with him, it was impossible _not_ to be - and Fred perhaps most of all, with their similar interests and personalities – but time and circumstance had diverged their paths. Some of them had stayed on in Avonlea, one or two had gone or were likely to, and some, like Gilbert himself, lived a transitory existence in between.

He and Pris and now Fred, unsure whether to approach Diana from the other side, seemed to be the only ones, now, who saw Diana give him a letter. Gilbert noted his startled, stricken reaction to it, and it made him uneasy, though he hardly knew why. On the edges of the merriment in the hall, of the townsfolk readying themselves to usher in a new year, Tom Caruthers clutched Diana's hand as if his life depended on it, his face an unreadable mix of emotions, and then turned and walked out into the darkness, as unobtrusively as he had come.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

" _ **Then they walked home together in the dusk, crowned king and queen of the bridal realm of love, along winding paths fringed with the sweetest flowers that ever bloomed, and over haunted meadows where winds of hope and memory blew." Anne of the Island**_ **(Ch. 41)**

* _Anne of the Island_ (Ch. 21)


	11. Chapter 11 A Wilderness of Strangers

_**Oh dear. So. Many. Words. Now I know why I fought to get this one out this week!**_

 ** _This is for all the wonderful readers and reviewers who have wondered - and worried! - about Tom. Thank you x_**

* * *

 **Chapter Eleven**

 **A Howling Wilderness of Strangers**

 _ **June - September 1876**_

* * *

Tom sat; mute, motionless, numb. The cab wove at furious speed through the streets and down towards the docks; there would be extra money for the driver if they didn't miss the ferry. From his perch he cast fearful eyes down to the wheels as they turned, and wondered, if he jumped, would he land clear of them, nimbly scampering away through the crowds, or would he land under them, tossed about, his body jerking like a marionette held by an unseen puppet master, coming to a stop as a mangled wreck in the gutter.

* * *

He was sick on the ferry. This came as an insulting surprise to someone who had entertained the thought of running away to sea. He couldn't swim a stroke either, which rather put paid to the idea of leaping heroically off the boat and making his way back to shore to find her.

Mrs Spencer watched him distrustfully from inside, petting Lily on her lap, as if she would much rather have him tied to the railing as he retched, to give her some peace of mind they would at least make it all the way across the strait without further incident.

* * *

He had never in his life been on a train. There had been nowhere for them to go where they needed one, and no money for the journey regardless. He was fascinated by the strength and the speed and the noise as it pulled in and out of the various stations. The countryside was so vast, and the colors so extraordinary; undulating fields as golden as his mother's hair; a sky so startlingly blue it was as if a child had taken to it with an overeager paintbrush; and everywhere was green, pulsing, _alive_. He'd never seen the like of it.

He tried to read the different signs as they went; the places with their quaint, often natured-inspired names. She was right; he _had_ needed her quick understanding and her vocabulary to assist him. His throat closed up in painful, throbbing misery as he thought of her.

* * *

There was much fuss as Mrs Spencer began waking Lily from her sleep and directing her older girl to gather jackets and Lily's little bag.

" _Thomas_?" he heard, and it took him a beat to realise she was addressing him. "The girls and I go on to White Sands, but you must get off before us at the very next stop. It's called _Bright River._ The Station Master will be looking out for you, so don't get any fool notions into your head."

He blushed for shame, to have her know where his thoughts had lain _. But that was before…_ he could barely think of the betrayal inherent in it… _that was before he had_ seen _it here_.

Mrs Spencer looked at him very directly.

"You must wait for a man named _Matthew Cuthbert._ The Cuthberts are good, decent people. You will have a home with them. Not many will know the new start you are getting."

She paused to close her arms around Lily, and he thought he saw, just for a moment, a flash of feeling from her. After all, she had seen where he had come from; she knew what – or _whom_ – he had left.

"It's best not to speak of the circumstances," she warned briskly. "It won't serve any purpose anyway. My advice to you is to be grateful and to take the chance you've been given."

His face, flooded with color, now turned pale. Mrs Spencer could not have known the words they had said to one another; the words Anne had given back to him. She couldn't have heard them. But they were before him again anyway; they rose to meet him. He didn't know yet that he would hear them, echoing with meaning and portent, down through the years.

He hadn't realised the sudden pang and panic when he was truly on his own, after Mrs Spencer and the train had departed as he had stumbled out, clutching his crudely fashioned knapsack. He tried to remember what she had told him, but he couldn't seem to retain anything in his head. He looked about the platform in wild incomprehension. Perhaps a dozen people were bustling about; given or giving hugs of greeting, hauling luggage, or asking a question of a man in a smart uniform. As the little crowd cleared it was just him; the man in the uniform strolled over, his face offering a small, slightly officious smile.

"Hello there, sonny! I've heard about you. Don't worry – he'll be along shortly."

Tom stared blankly.

"You can sit yourself down inside the waiting room, if you like. Or there's the bench here on the platform. Up to you." He nodded and went back along, to adjust numbers on a huge sign, consulting a silver pocket watch as he did so.

Tom chose the bench, simply because it was nearest. He sat down slowly, feeling as if he was in a dream. This morning he had awoken knowing that his life would change, yet again, irrevocably. He just hadn't known _how._

The late afternoon sun slanted down on his face. The breeze was lilting and soft and slightly, surprisingly fragrant. He turned to look down the dirt path off the edge of the platform to a large tree; he had no idea what type it was, but he liked the look of its delicate, plentiful pink blossoms, and the canopy the branches made, like an umbrella.

He sat for what seemed a very long time. Just as he felt he might close his eyes against the sun and his exhaustion, there was a slow, almost hesitant shuffling, and Tom turned his face, to see the man.

* * *

"Hello, there," the man offered, shyly. " _I'm sorry I was late_.* I'm Matthew Cuthbert _._ "

Tom stood automatically, having been jolted very definitely into full consciousness again. He offered his hand and the man took it; there was not much disparity in their sizes.

"Hello Mr Cuthbert, Sir. I'm Tom Caruthers."

" _Tom. Caruthers_." Mr Cuthbert seemed to pause and taste his name as one might a new food; eager yet tentative. "Welcome to the Island now, Tom. Forgive me. We didn't know what you were called."

Tom nodded, hardly surprised by this information. "Yes, Sir."

"No _Sir_ , mind. Or Mr Cuthbert. _Matthew_ is fine, now."

Tom nodded again.

"Is that all you have with you?" he indicated to the bundle resting on the bench.

"Yes, Sir. Ah, Matthew."

"Right. Best be off. _Come along then. The horse is over in the yard._ "*

Tom hardly knew what to expect by way of greeting, but he was both slightly mystified and instantly reassured by this one, and the man's own curiously calm demeanour quelled his own jumbled emotions. As Tom walked beside him he took in the man's – Matthew's – rather _"ungainly figure and long, iron-grey hair that touched his stooping shoulders, and_ (his) _full, soft brown beard."_ * He noticed his large, calloused, work-roughed hands, and the warm color to his face, and his obvious discomfort in his suit and starched collar. Here was a man who had worked hard all his life; out of doors; on a _farm._ Tom knew nothing of farms or animals or any of it. But he knew enough about working hard.

 _He supposed he wouldn't mind working hard…_ he thought as he looked around him in awe, climbing up into the buggy … _if he was working out in all_ this.

To say the drive from the station was pleasant was an injustice; after a while Tom was numbed by the beauty surrounding him. Occasionally Matthew would point out the name of a landmark, and Tom would nod and murmur appreciatively. They passed through a remarkable _"stretch of road four or five hundred yards long, completely arched over with wide-spreading apple-trees"_ * named, appropriately enough, the Avenue; there was a handsome old bridge spanning a _"pond, looking almost like a river"_ *called Barry's pond, with the Barry family itself residing in the _"little grey house peering around a white apple orchard on a slope beyond";_ * there were woods and meadows and cows grazing contentedly; there was the fascinating, distinctive red earth of the roads.

Tom asked the occasional question, and Matthew made reply as best he could. Beyond that they completed their journey in companionable silence.

* * *

The shadows were lengthening as they made their way up the long lane and to the _"big, rambling, orchard-embowered house where the Cuthberts lived"_ ** on the edge of the woods. Tom could hardly take in the size of it; the wide veranda, sweeping around to meet the barn sighted out the back; the two large orchards and the endless fields beyond. As his mother lay dying in their dingy one-roomed tenement they tried together to imagine what Heaven must be like, and their respective wishes varied greatly, but Tom hoped that a small measure of it might be something like this; the rambling house on this enchanted island, with the setting sun stealing across the whitewashed boards and the dark green gables; and the salt of the distant sea tickling his nose when the wind drifted past him.

Miss Cuthbert greeted them at the door, and ushered them inside with little fuss.

"Marilla, this is Tom Caruthers. Tom, this is my sister, Miss Marilla Cuthbert."

Tom extended his hand a second time, and the lady took it with a small smile, her brown eyes very direct on his.

"Hello, Tom. Welcome to Green Gables."

"Thank you, Miss Cuthbert, Ma'am."

"Well, now, you may call me Marilla. Matthew is Matthew, and my own name is good enough for me. Do you prefer Tom or Thomas yourself?"

He gulped at this. _What a distinguished name!_ she had first greeted him. _Thomas Caruthers, Esquire. That has a real ring to it._

He gave the answer now he had made then.

"Tom is good enough for me, too, Ma'am… Marilla."

Her eyes viewed him kindly. She was _"a tall, thin woman, with angles but without curves; her dark hair showed some grey streaks and was twisted up in a hard little knot behind."_ ** She brought to mind an older, more weathered Mrs Cadbury, which caused a sad and unreasonable little pang in him, and so too it seemed as if she might also have a hidden sense of humour that fought a war with itself in the way her lips almost gave into a quirk.

"Well, now, Tom, you must be famished. I've laid out a little supper for us here and you can wash up at the sink to the side."

With an ingrained obedience he set his little bundle on a chair and did as bidden. Marilla gave Matthew an encouraging look as she crossed over to the table and Matthew followed suit before taking his chair. It was all going rather better than expected, despite all the dire predictions Rachel Lynde had listed as an inadvertent warning earlier that afternoon. Marilla had precious little experience of children in general and young boys in particular, and could hardly fathom what an unseen orphan from Nova Scotia would be actually like, but in Tom Caruthers, with his seemingly quiet, respectful demeanour, she was reasonably encouraged.

Tom appeared to be taken aback by the variety and array of food, simple though it was; after bowing for Matthew's quick grace (reassuringly familiar enough with the process) his pale blue eyes darted back and forth to each dish, torn by his overwhelm. Marilla frowned to herself; the boy was tall but too thin; broad about the shoulders and with strong forearms but with virtually no spare flesh with which to support his fast growing body. She thought to have him aim for the simplest, most filling fare on offer.

"You must try the new potatoes, Tom," she suggested. "We have been pretty pleased with this crop."

He seemed grateful for the direction, and as soon as he was halfway through his fill Marilla felt he would be comfortable enough in providing some information.

"So, Tom, why don't you tell us something of yourself?"

With barely a pause, as if an oft rehearsed request, he recounted the story of his life with simplicity and a sombre lack of sentimentalism; the abandonment of his father; the spiralling cycle of poverty; the erratic schooling; the long illness and premature death of his affectionate, beloved young mother. It seemed to be made more horrendous by the detached detail, the disconnect; Tom had already separated himself from his own experiences in order just to survive them. Only once he reached his time at the orphanage did he falter; and on the circumstances of earlier in the day he grew very quiet.

"Did you make any friends who will miss you?" poor Marilla had thought this much safer ground than their previous discussion.

Tom's face fell in on itself. "I have … I had … one friend. Her name was Anne." Lost in his own miserable memory of the day, thus forgetting himself, or simply unable to house the sorrowful secret any longer, he added, "she was the one meant to come here today."

Marilla paused mid mouthful; even Matthew looked puzzled.

"I'm sorry, Tom, I don't understand you," Marilla ventured.

" _She_ was the one to come here today. It was _her_ place. _Her_ new family. She'd never had a proper family; only women with too many children who just worked her. She was ready and she'd said goodbye to everyone. But then Mrs Spencer came and… and… there had been a mistake. You never wanted a girl; you wanted a boy…"

He looked like he may collapse for recounting it, or bring up his dinner. Marilla and Matthew exchanged a look of alarm.

"Well yes, Tom, certainly we wanted a boy…" she tried as gently as she could. "We have the farm here, you know. Matthew is getting on in years and we thought we'd take on a boy like yourself, bring him up properly, have him help us and maybe try to help him in return…" she again searched Matthew's face, but was receiving no help from him, unsurprisingly. "We couldn't have taken on a girl, even your Anne. It wouldn't have made any sense."

There was a long silence. Tom seemed not to dispute her explanation, but his quivering lip told them he was far from making peace with it.

"May I write her? Let her know how I'm doing?"

"Yes, of course," Marilla smiled in relief, clutching at the olive branch. "That is a very good idea. Bring you peace of mind. _And_ her."

Tom nodded, his eyes very bright.

"So, then," Marilla was eager to move on. "I'm sure you're getting rather tired. You'll soon learn we - and most people round these parts - are very early risers, out of necessity. Matthew has most of his jobs done before city folk have even had their breakfasts."

Tom smiled weakly.

"We'll get you settled and up to bed, I think. It's been a big day for you."

Tom nodded, beyond the ability to articulate just how big it had been.

He and Matthew moved off from the table; Marilla began removing dishes. She watched out of the corner of her eye as Tom picked up his small, sad little bundle of worldly possessions, and felt some strange tug in her; of sympathy but something else. She dismissed it, but then another thought came to her.

"Tom! Have you any of your papers hidden away there? Adoption papers, mind, that Mrs Spencer would have signed for us?"

Tom looked blankly. "No Ma'am."

"No Birth Certificate or copy of any of your records?"

Tom shook his head slowly. "No, Ma'am."

Even Matthew now cleared his throat hesitatingly.

"There was nothing with him, Marilla, other that his knapsack and what he stood up in."

Marilla frowned worriedly. "Do you think Mrs Spencer means to drop them by us another time?" she asked the question generally of the room.

"Ma'am… Marilla." Tom gulped. "There _are_ no papers for me. She didn't sign any. There… there wasn't time. She, well, she arrived, and then there was Anne, but she wouldn't take Anne, and Mrs Cadbury beckoned me to come, and then I was in the cab and…"

The full mismanaged horror of it all was clear in his stricken blue eyes.

"Well, never mind that now. We'll sort it. Off to bed with you. Matthew can show you up to your room; I'll follow in a moment. I've been mending one of his old nightshirts for you till I can measure you up for your own."

Marilla watched them both slowly head up the stairs, trying to compose herself.

 _Well, what a fine kettle of fish this was. This is what came of it, of course, when you relied on others to do the task for you._

Marilla left the dishes, and followed on up with the nightshirt. Goodness only knew he was nearly tall enough to wear any of Matthew's old cast offs, but it was best perhaps to have _some_ things of his own. She reached the little east gable room, to find Matthew unnecessarily pointing out the bare furnishings of it, as if he thought Tom didn't quite understand how a room worked.

Marilla offered the nightshirt; she and Matthew were at the doorway, but they both saw Tom turn away from them and take off his threadbare shirt; and it gave them a very quick, neat view of the haphazard pattern of fading angry red welts and ugly intermingled bruises across his back and arms. Matthew stared, his own blue eyes shocked; Marilla covered her gasp with her hand, and staggered with all the speed she could muster back down the stairs.

* * *

Matthew came down a short time thereafter, to find Marilla had brewed the tea but found herself seated, staring absently at the place Tom had sat with them.

"Who would do that to a child?" she pleaded to her brother, her usually firm, resolute voice trying to mask a quiver. "No matter what kind of wickedness may have pre-empted it?"

Matthew, eyes hooded, walked tiredly over to fetch his pipe; a sure sign of his own distress.

"Well, then, I hardly know…" he faltered. "I don't know anything about the boy, really, no more than you. All I know is I'm fairly sure he hasn't a wicked bone in his body. I'm rather to think that… well… maybe the wickedness wasn't _his_."

Marilla gave a tight little nod in agreement.

"What are we to do, Matthew?" she was despairing. "The boy has no papers. Nothing to even say who he is, let alone to tie him to us. If we were to contact the orphanage ourselves I hardly know what _they'd_ do. Would they try to take him back? Would they make us take another instead? Would he be so traumatised as to run away, or try to go off with this girl he mentioned?"

Matthew had begun to puff away furiously. "I can't say as I want him anywhere near the place again," he claimed, as firm about it as he had ever been about anything in his life.

Marilla's lips pursed.

"Actually, I've been thinking already a little about… the situation."

"Mmm?"

" _Rachel_ was here earlier," Marilla began, moving to refresh the tea with hot water. The very name earned something very close to an eye roll from Matthew.

"And?"

"And she was falling over herself with curiosity, of course. So I started to explain the situation, how we'd originally looked to see if we could afford a hired boy to help work the farm with you, that we'd looked over our finances and you'd even met with the bank manager. Well… I hadn't even gotten on to the idea of an _orphan_ at all, before she was on about making sure I didn't hire a little French boy, as they'd up and leave once you trained them up decently, and then she'd heard of a couple burned in their beds up West by some orphan boy… and then some orphan _girl_ in New Brunswick who'd harmed an entire family with some poison down the well or some such… Honestly, Matthew, I clammed up then and there."

Matthew's frown was very decided.

"Now that I've met him, Matthew, I could hardly have the Rachel Lyndes of this world look sideways at him his whole life, convinced he's about to make off with the silverware. How fair would that be? What sort of a fresh start is _that_ after what he's been through?"

Matthew nodded thoughtfully.

"I thought maybe… and just hear me out first … I thought maybe we could pass him off as _ours_. A distant relative, mind. Maybe the son of that second cousin we have on the mainland; she married some wastrel or other herself and is no longer with us, God rest her. Now I know what you're thinking, Matthew – it would be a bare faced lie, and I'm hardly comfortable with that aspect of it. But the lie hurts no one, and it just might… well, help _him._ "

Matthew puffed on in silence.

"He has the look of you when you were a boy," Marilla mused. "It struck me rather as soon as I saw him, beside you. Fairer, mind, and gentler features, but just nearly as tall, and definitely with the same manner."

Matthew gave a small smile of almost pleased acknowledgment.

"What of Mrs Spencer?"

"Who's to see her?" Marilla dismissed. "Over all the way to White Sands? She'll forget it all soon enough. And I dare say she'd want to forget about it in a hurry anyway, for didn't she have a part in it, leaving with a child that hadn't even been properly signed over to her?"

Matthew paused to fiddle with his pipe.

"I've no trouble with any of that. But… what about Rachel?"

"Leave Rachel to me. She doesn't know _every_ single thing about us and our family. If I tell it convincingly enough she'll start thinking that _she's_ the one who arranged him to come and stay with us."

Matthew offered an even broader smile now.

"Well, then," he answered. "I guess that settles it."

* * *

Marilla went back upstairs to say goodnight to Tom, mindful due to her sudden flight she hadn't yet done so. She found him sitting warily on the edge of the bed, as if unsure he actually had permission to lie in it.

Explanations they had worked out downstairs would become his to tell as well, but that could wait till the morning. She held out a little tin of _Minard's Liniment_ , offering to put some on his back for him.

"Here, Tom," she suggested, her embarrassment and heightened feelings on the matter making her voice gruffer than she had intended. "This might help soothe you somewhat."

The boy flushed a little himself, but he adjusted the nightshirt and allowed the surprising gentleness of her touch. He did not produce any explanation for his injuries and Marilla did not press for one. But the simple act of offering the kindness and having it accepted seemed to form a covenant between them all the same.

* * *

Later, Tom rest his head on a downy soft pillow, under a warm and not at all scratchy coverlet, and listened to the sound of the wind in the trees and the almost unnatural quiet of the huge farmhouse at the edge of the woods.

He wondered what was happening at the orphanage. He wondered if the children had still been expecting their story at bedtime without one of them there. He wondered if Anne was staring into the darkness as he was, measuring the minutes in silent tears.

* * *

Tom didn't much care what people thought of him, so if Marilla and Matthew wanted to say they found him abandoned by the railway tracks he didn't mind, so long as he could be honest about being the son of his mother. He would not forget her or explain her away; she played on his mind more now that she did at the orphanage; he wondered what she would make of the boy who had only read about horses and cows in books now feeding real life ones; of actually knowing the rough feel and piquant smell of hay as he pitched it in the barn; of the wonder and warmth of a new egg in his hand; of his comical first attempts to milk their clearly affronted cow; of tilling the soil to prepare it for something to grow there.

His first weeks were quiet and steady; in the company of Matthew and Marilla Cuthbert they could hardly be otherwise. Matthew was patient and kind, going over every new job and chore thoroughly, letting him attempt it again and again till it was mastered. Marilla was brisk and efficient and didn't waste a second of the day, and seemed to be on a personal mission to have him consume his own slowly increasing body weight in food. He had the vague sense that they had closed a protective net around him, and wanted to give him time to adjust to his surroundings before launching him onto the village at large, although they were careful to have him head out alongside one of other of them on various errands, just so that he could see and be seen. However, little did he know his vital test had already come and gone the very next day of his arrival, when he and Matthew came in to wash up for the midday meal, to find a middle aged woman in smart jacket and hat, sitting at the table with Marilla. He would think later she had reminded him of a bellows used for the fire; puffed up and full of air to begin with, which quickly released itself in a rush of breath and words till there was nothing left.

"Well, now, Marilla, and here they are at last. Good day to you, Matthew. I see you have been busy out in the lower fields; I spotted you heading that way on my walk over, so I knew I'd have time to get the whole extraordinary story before you came in. I must say I'm unsure what to think of it; taking in a strange relation you've not ever set eyes on. I hardly know what business a confirmed old bachelor and his spinster sister have in raising a child – no offence, Marilla, but you know I only raised ten of my own. Come then, boy, let me have a look at you."

Tom blinked; it took him a moment to even register the request to step forward, he was so very bamboozled by the rate and volume of words flung at him.

"He's tall and wiry enough, but terribly thin and peaky, Marilla, and I really do think a good strong wind would knock him about without a trouble. You've got to try a few decent stews and such to get him to fill up on or he won't be any use to you at all. And what is it they call you, now?"

"Hello, Ma'am. I'm Tom Caruthers."

The woman shook his automatically outstretched hand, and her face relaxed into a small but definite smile.

"Well there, Tom Caruthers. I'm Mrs Rachel Lynde from down the lane. You have a fine name there; it belongs to my own dear husband, Thomas, so _there's_ something encouraging at least. And what do you say to landing yourself here in Avonlea?"

"I'm very grateful to the Cuthberts for taking me in, Mrs Lynde, Ma'am. I look forward to earning my keep and working hard for them."

There had been only a little time, once the whole explanation had been set out that morning, to elaborate much on the expected visit of the woman now in front of him. But Tom was a quick study, and he had seen the tension in Marilla's face as they came inside, and felt Matthew just behind him fiddling anxiously with his cap. He wasn't a natural charmer, but he had a sweet earnestness to him that even he himself hardly realised, and that the woman now seemed to respond to favourably.

"Well," she flashed a wider smile at Marilla. "At the very least he has a civil, respectful tongue in his head. To be sure half the towns on the mainland are overrun with wild boys and street urchins with no concept of manners at all. He could be rather good looking if given half the chance, with a bit of proper color to him. And for goodness' sake, Marilla, get him into some decent clothes. They say you lost your mother just recently?"

Tom gulped. By shared decree they had fiddled with the timeline slightly. He was still reluctant to talk of his mother, least of all to Mrs Rachel Lynde from down the lane, but there was no getting away from the sad fact of it.

"Yes, Ma'am," he affirmed quietly. "She had consumption."

Rachel Lynde's eyes softened in sympathy, and she shook her head, tutting extravagantly.

"Dreadful business. _Dreadful._ Mind you fill your lungs with all the clean air you can here, Tom Caruthers."

"Yes, Ma'am."

She looked him up and down very carefully, as if making her mind up about something.

"I guess I _can_ see a little of Matthew in him, Marilla, come to think of it," Rachel Lynde assessed, her head to one side in serious contemplation. "The eyes for one. But I rather have it from your mother's side – she had a more handsome profile. Certainly not from your father's; _his_ looks were nothing to write home about."

Tom felt Matthew's soft, relieved sigh from behind him; on his periphery he saw the flash of Marilla's sudden, wry smile.

* * *

Mrs Cadbury paced the dormitory checking on the children. It was taking them forever to settle for bed now. It taxed her nerves and her patience, both of which were decidedly frayed these days. Despairingly, she had allowed Matron to brandish her birch rod, but even that slightly reformed tartar hadn't quite the heart to do more than wave it threateningly, though that still seemed to be enough.

She searched now till she found the ghost against the glass. The pale hand pressed against the night-cold window; the pale face leaning in; the grey eyes unfocussed and trance like; the bloodless lips whispering for hours. Anne Shirley had summoned Katie Maurice again, like a spectre invited to a séance.

Mrs Cadbury really felt she had tried everything with which to grasp hold of the girl and pull her out of this disturbing pit of despair. She was not one for extremes of emotion herself and so felt ill equipped to deal with the slow fading shell in front of her. She had thought perhaps the company of Martha might benefit them both and on that girl's return – a day after Tom's own departure – and had encouraged Anne to join Cook's new lessons. One would have thought Anne Shirley could have coped with scones at the very least, but she was so weepy and distracted – and a terrible influence on Martha, _that_ poor girl having been through enough already – that when she had come across them crying in one another's arms she had allowed the one-time catharsis before removing Anne determinedly, ordering her to read to the infants, which she did so each afternoon – refusing the evenings - with only passable enthusiasm and a disturbing lack of expression.

Another missive from Tom Caruthers burned a hole in the pocket of her sensible grey skirt. That made five now these last five weeks. The boy was as annoyingly regular in his correspondence as the letters themselves were boyishly engaging. Mrs Cadbury had only shared the first one with Anne, who had almost grabbed at it like a wild thing; feverish and uncontrolled, and devoured it, refusing to give it back, even though the address had already been carefully snipped from the top. The way she was going about it all was decidedly unhealthy; and it wasn't even about the lost family anymore, and perhaps never had been; it was about the lost boy.

Mrs Cadbury sighed as she approached her. It wasn't a _desire_ to keep Tom and his letters away from Anne, it was a necessity. His new family, this Cuthbert couple, seemed perfectly good and decent, and were treating him well. They hadn't come back to her with recriminations because the papers hadn't been signed; maybe good, decent country folk thought there was no need of them. They had wanted a boy and they had gotten one.

And Mrs Cadbury still rather wanted her job, thank you very much.

If Tom was now taken care of, and if Anne was shortly to be taken care of, then the horrible matter – not only the papers for Tom but the whole entire horrific event that prefaced it – could be put to bed. If Tom and Anne's friendship withered and died, then the whole matter died with it.

If only both of them would play their part.

" _Anne!_ Anne Shirley! This ridiculous behaviour _has_ to stop!" Mrs Cadbury now whispered furiously.

Anne herself sighed now, resigned.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Katie," she rasped. " _All for one and one for all."_ ***

Anne turned, defeated, towards her.

"Have you any news of Tom for me, Mrs Cadbury?"

"No, Anne," Mrs Cadbury replied, hoping that God wouldn't strike her down, but rather appreciate the difficulty of her most desperate position.

"But I don't understand it… the first one got through."

"Anne…" Mrs Cadbury warned, taking the chair beside the windowsill on which Anne now leaned. "You know we have discussed this!"

Those huge grey eyes welled with too-ready tears, and Mrs Cadbury could hardly stand to see the reproach in them.

"I don't know why I am not permitted to write to him. I don't know why he is not now writing to _me,_ " she insisted with something of her old stubbornness.

Mrs Cadbury's sigh was heavy.

"Anne, you _know_ why. I've explained this to you. Tom has not been formally adopted. The papers are still unsigned. He is not safeguarded in the event someone comes for him or looks more thoroughly into the matter. His new family would lose him and he them. Is it not _our_ role to then protect and safeguard _him_ , Anne? As he tried to himself for _you_?"

She shuddered to give the reminder, for it was bitterly unfair, but it had the desired effect. Anne shrunk into herself.

"But to wait until he is _eighteen_?" she whimpered.

Mrs Cadbury rallied herself. They were almost there.

"He will be a man by that stage, Anne. An adult in his own right, and in charge of his own destiny then. And you yourself will not be far behind him. It would be perfectly fine to… _approach…_ him, then. And he will be able to thank you in time, for putting his welfare first. It will have been the gesture of a true friend – the _truest_ friend – and he will come to know it."

Anne was very, very quiet.

Mrs Cadbury pressed her advantage.

"We must now look to _your_ future, Anne. I have been making many enquiries on your behalf. I had a very encouraging response to one of them, just today. I'm replying immediately tomorrow. It was from a teacher friend of mine – we met many, many moons ago, I can't even tell you how far back – it was when I did my own training. She is a teacher of English at a High School, but she has connections to an orphanage there – a Home for Girls. How would you like to get a proper education with them, then, Anne Shirley?"

Mrs Cadbury let the question hang there; a morsel of hope, sweet and tantalising. She said no more, but Anne allowed herself to be led off to bed, limp and listless, unprotesting. Her eyes, however, as she turned them back up to her, held the hint of curiosity; the merest spark of life again.

Mrs Cadbury breathed out slowly as she continued her rounds and then climbed upstairs to her office. She had already received the initial letter from Summerside ten days ago, and the letter today had confirmed that they may be happy to receive their new charge between now and the beginning of the school year, awaiting her final response.

She would not delay, but it would be best if Anne was not informed till the last possible moment.

And she would absolutely have her onbound papers at the ready.

Mrs Cadbury's two letters were able to catch the morning post; the first to Master Tom Caruthers, and the other to Miss Katherine Brooke.

* * *

Tom held the letter in his shaking hands. He could scarcely believe it. After all this time – six weeks, most of the summer – he had some news of her.

It was not her writing, as far as he remembered. And he learned, unfortunately, it was not her own response either.

 _Master Thomas Caruthers,_

 _c/o Mr M Cuthbert and Miss M Cuthbert_

 _Green Gables_

 _Avonlea,_

 _Prince Edward Island_

 _July 30_ _th_ _1876_

 _Dear Tom,_

 _I write to thank you for your recent and numerous enquiries as to the welfare of one Miss Anne Shirley, who was resident with you here in Hopetown Asylum from January to June 1876._

 _This is to inform you that Anne Shirley was moved by me after your own departure, in her best interests, to another institution; a Home for Girls elsewhere, the details of which must remain confidential. The home is run in connection with a number of trained teaching professionals, one of whom is my own personal friend who has agreed to somewhat oversee her welfare, as far as her own circumstances and duties allow._

 _I would ask you to please refrain from any further enquiries as to Miss Shirley. She will be best served if she is able to put recent experiences behind her, in order to make the most of her future opportunities. I am sure she would wish you to do the same. I would not jeopardise either of your new positions by enabling a correspondence to begin between you, the results of which could only lead to unnecessary hurt and harm on all sides._

 _I am most pleased to hear you are happy in your new situation and wish you the very best._

 _Yours Sincerely_

 _Mrs Margaret Cadbury_

 _Director, Hopetown Asylum, Nova Scotia_

Marilla had taken Tom into the village to run some errands and they had collected the mail whilst there. Tom had become a known presence in the town and there were few in Avonlea now who would still need to enquire as to the circumstances of his arrival – Rachel had neatly seen to that. It was a strange and wonderous thing to be in the company of a child; it conferred an entry into conversations that had seemed barred to she and Matthew before; as if in having the tall, well mannered, nice looking boy beside them made their own presence more tangible, and they themselves more worthy; no longer the odd brother and sister living life both literally and metaphorically on the periphery, but increasingly drawn into the centre. Even Matthew had found himself offering more than a mumble to townsfolk; having Tom with him forced him to make an effort for the boy if not for himself, and only the other day at the general store Mr Wright had imparted some words of wisdom on some new grain feed, and had urged his short, red faced boy to ask the tall, now-not-quite-so-pale one whether he might join him in a spot of fishing come the weekend.

So now Marilla watched Tom out of the corner of her eye as she made the tea and he sat at the table, staring at the cream envelope, and hoped that whatever news it contained helped bring him out of himself. His shy, reluctant smiles were coming more often now, and there seemed to be moments of genuine pleasure in his growing prowess and proficiency around the farm. But, still, he seemed to hold himself back, as if not able to fully commit to this new life of his; not through lack of desire or even want of trying, but through some echo, unknown and unheard to the rest of them, that called him back across the strait, back to the orphanage, and back to that girl.

Tom opened the envelope slowly. He read the letter even more slowly. He left it on the table, and ran out into the fields.

* * *

Tom didn't expect to find himself sitting awkwardly in the third row of the Avonlea schoolhouse that September, trying to enfold himself behind a desk that was as if a cage made for an impossibly small animal, his elbows jutting and his knees butting and the indecipherable third reader in front of him.

He was much happier – the idea of _happiness_ itself being a rather sad joke the universe might be having at his expense – in the fields or with the cows or riding alongside Matthew or Marilla in the buggy. He had found comfort in the quiet rhythms and the steadying predictability of Green Gables and the farm; he was quite sure he could spend the rest of his days there easily… if not completely _happily._

He thought of Anne, in a very different type of building, surrounded by very different would-be scholars, and then he found he couldn't really breathe properly, and that the air itself was trapped in his chest, and the great weight would press down on him, deadening and defeating, and he would have to think of something else just to struggle on till it passed.

So he tried to think of anything else.

He flicked his pale blue eyes around the room, made already stifling by the heat outside of the late morning sun; it beamed little shafts of light through the gaps and the knotholes in the walls; an insolent reminder of the life and freedom still going on all around, now denied them. Behind him he could hear impatient shuffling and whispered asides, and Mr Phillips' low, too-intimate instruction to the pretty older girl at the back. They were two weeks into the school year but Tom didn't like using anyone's name if he could help it; using their name gained their attention and he was already receiving too much attention already. So he still identified people in his head by their features, stamped with their personality regardless; the haughty girl with the fine-boned frown of disdain; the homely girl who found refuge in her wit; the pretty dark haired girl with the soft, dimpled smile everyone noted and the intelligent dark eyes they didn't; the giggly, gorgeous blonde girl whom all the boys noted, all the time. These four were the most vivid to him; the rest faded into the background. As he wished he could.

The boys were nameless too, if he could get away with it. But Billy Andrews' name stuck with him and to him, like a shadow he couldn't run from, no matter how quickly he ducked and darted.

Tom ate his bread and his biscuit and his apple in solitary silence, by one of the trees in the yard, his stomach now used to the food, his body having seized upon the unknown goodness it represented in his growing strength; the axe for the wood he swung more easily; the plough he directed more forcefully; the ambling, long limbed gait straighter and more purposeful. Mrs Rachel Lynde might have mentioned, as if she was personally responsible, that his good looks were indeed emerging in his new-tanned skin and his brighter eyes; that his hair had lightened in the sun to something almost fetching; that he was surely grown another foot already and still not yet thirteen.

Tom studied his hands. The long fingers seemed to miss grasping something; they missed flexing the blade; they missed giving something form and feature; the nothing made into something, the lump of wood given life.

He had thought about it, but … _no._ Because the last thing he had fashioned had been for _her._

"Hey, there, tow-head Tom!" the wretchedly familiar voice interrupted his contemplation.

Tom ignored it, as always.

" _Hey!_ Teaching yourself to count?" the taunt was accompanied by a scatter of dirt in his direction.

Tom looked up then, feigning mild affront. The circle of boys was hardly threatening and he raised a sandy eyebrow.

Billy, like all bullies, was looking for the excitement of being challenged enough to look brave, but not quite challenged enough to show his latent cowardice. Tom didn't know in what way he had so annoyed him, but perhaps his very presence was the reason; perhaps those like Billy didn't even require one. Tom's gaze flicked to the other boys, awkwardly stubbing their own toes in the dirt, uncomfortable but unable to commit to any defence of him and make themselves a target again instead.

"Well?" Billy insisted.

"Well, what?" Tom sighed.

"I'm you're older and your better, tow-head Tom. I don't know if your attitude is quite respectful enough!"

Billy was not only a bully, but evidently an insultingly unimaginative one. He'd use the same line last week, not long after the school year had begun, and probably would use the same oft-rehearsed manoeuvre.

"Bow down to your better, tow-head."

"No."

"Kneel before me, you worthless piece of shit!"

"No."

Tom really could have laughed in his face at the theatrical posturing of the puffed up schoolboy. He had seen so much worse before. He had known _real_ danger, and he had felt _real_ fear. He could have retaliated but he was tired of that life; he tried to ignore it but that was harder to do now; as his body had hardened his soul had softened. He knew real goodness and kindness now and it had permeated him to his bones. He would not disappoint Matthew and Marilla. He would not insult the memory of his mother. He would not betray the bravery of _her._

" _Right_ , boys," Billy sneered. "Let's show him how it's done!"

"C'mon, Billy…" that was Fred Wright, making a soft, stammering protest. "Let… let him alone."

"Do _you_ want to show him how it's done?" Billy rounded on Fred, and then looked scornfully at the others – Charlie and Moody and another Sloane and one of the innumerable Pyes.

Evidently there were no other volunteers forthcoming.

Tom closed his eyes with martyred weariness, and felt the hands grab him – it really didn't matter whose they were – and assemble him, with some effort, arms outstretched, forward onto his knees. Held thus, pinioned and prostrate, it was a simple process for Billy to grab his head and push it down into the rust colored dirt, rubbing his face in it for good measure.

" _That's_ how we respect our betters," Billy crowed, and Tom heard him and the others shuffle off.

Tom slowly opened his eyes, to see the single hand extended in front of him. He took it, and Fred helped haul him up.

Fred gave him a pitying smile, borne of his own prior knowledge of such encounters.

"Having fun at school, yet?" Fred asked in his wry way.

Tom grimaced, rolling his eyes and taking a hankerchief to his face. No matter how much he seemed to clean it, though, it always felt like the stain remained.

* * *

In the third week of school, there was a decided frisson in the air. The girls who had rather crowded around near Tom outside before Mr Phillips rang the bell, seeing if they could catch his eye or corner him into giving them that shy, blushing smile, now turned their attention to the path, craning their necks as if in anticipation of some special event. He heard their breathless conjectures as they waited impatiently…

"… _visiting his cousins in New Brunswick over the summer…"_

"… _only came home Saturday night…"_

" _out to Alberta… there three years…"_

"… _just torments our lives out…"_ ****

The disappointment on their faces was comically palpable when there seemed to be no especial arrival, and Tom followed them in as they made their way inside forlornly.

He virtually burst through the doors as Mr Phillips was marking the roll, bounding and breathless, his handsome face flushed and his curly dark hair in dashing disarray. He grinned at various students as he swept past and up to Mr Phillips, giving an earnest enough explanation for his tardiness as to receive a frown rather than a rebuke, and then gave a further generous smile to various others, particularly of the female variety, _roguish hazel eyes_ **** alight, before enfolding his own decidedly tall, lanky personage into an available seat.

Mr Phillips had a little trouble controlling the class that day, but there again his own fussy, supercilious nature hardly helped matters to begin with. There was a veritable spider's web of notes passed back and forth, all with the same recipient in mind; even Tom was recruited in this endeavour, due to his rather fortuitous position across the aisle and one in front of the boy receiving all this interest and adulation with a magnanimous air and a teasing, self satisfied grin.

The Avonlea schoolhouse populous was busy paying court to Gilbert Blythe for the rest of the week; the young ladies who had previously hovered about him, and even Billy Andrews himself, were sufficiently distracted as to almost forget about Tom entirely, and he was able to go about his business – including his lunch – in blissful, uninterrupted peace.

* * *

Gilbert Blythe, Billy Andrews and Tom Caruthers made a most unlikely triumvirate that Friday afternoon when class was dismissed. Tom had been asked to stay by Mr Phillips regarding being behind in his work; Gilbert had offered to stay for the same reason; and Billy's manifold infractions made his presence rather a weekly requirement.

Gilbert sat at his desk and perused the fourth reader whilst Billy sullenly copied out lines on the blackboard and Tom sat in dejected and uncomprehending misery. He had a fair knowledge of reading but his spelling was undeniably interpretative; he had a decent head for plain figures but found geometry quite beyond him; he liked the sound and rhythm of poetry but any subtextual reading was a foreign concept. He would face the ignominy of going down a class to the second reader until he came close to approaching the standard required of an almost thirteen year old.

He was thus dismissed, with Billy immediately following.

In the hands of a more compassionate teacher Tom would have fared far better, but after his initial enthusiasm had been soured by the lack of any acknowledgement as to his efforts, he was a little past caring. And Anne was not here to support or to harangue him one way or the other.

Gilbert moved with enthusiasm into the seat by Mr Phillips he had vacated; he had the spark and the interest – and the confidence – of a natural scholar, despite his own haphazard schooling. Tom recognised that look – eager, engaged, enflamed – because he had seen it in Anne.

* * *

Gilbert came out of his conference with Mr Phillips ten minutes later, laden with one or two extra books and an entire list of areas needing immediate attention, to the extraordinary sight of Billy and that new boy Tom Caruthers scuffling on the ground.

" _Hey!_ " he shouted, running towards the two interlocked figures, in time to waylay Billy before he attempted to press his knee into Tom's throat. "Get _off_ him!"

"Leave it alone, Gilbert!" Billy panted as he was wrenched away. "This is between me and – "

"Just _save_ it, Andrews! You were saying the same thing about _me_ three years ago!"

Gilbert pushed Billy back for good measure, and glared at the boy, older but of equal height, for he himself had certainly enjoyed a growth spurt and then some in his absent years.

Billy gave a nasty grimace and spat on the ground in Tom's general direction.

"Yeah, well, _he'll_ keep."

" _Get. Lost!"_ Gilbert warned, glaring, and waited till Billy ambled off and out of sight before turning his attention to the figure still on the ground, breathing heavily.

He offered his own tanned forearm, and an equally tanned – and perhaps, surprisingly, equally strong – arm clasped it, though the new boy was a good year behind himself.

"Thanks." Tom Caruthers said, shortly. "But you didn't have to."

"Yeah, of course not," Gilbert offered dryly, giving an amused smile. "You had the situation well in hand."

Tom smiled a little at that, pausing to look about at his clothes, neat and new-ish and now covered in a film of brown and rust, though thankfully nothing was torn. He began to dust himself off.

"I'm Gilbert," he extended his hand.

"I'm Tom," he shook it.

Gilbert picked up the boy's discarded books, offering them, and then went back for his own, abandoned when entering the fray.

"You're the one the Cuthberts have taken in," Gilbert noted as they started walking.

Tom nodded again, and then paused, giving his companion a hooded glance.

"You're the one they can't stop raving about."

Gilbert gave a chuckle and shook his head.

"The surprises continue! Firstly, you're _not_ actually afraid of Billy Andrews. Secondly, you _can_ actually speak. And thirdly, you might even have a sense of humour."

Tom's smile was tight but it was there.

"It's actually refreshing to have someone else new too," Gilbert now seemed content to settle in for a fireside chat. "Not that I'm _new_ , exactly, but just that I've been away, so everything _feels_ new."

Tom nodded. "Including all the attention?" he arched a brow.

Gilbert's chuckle was longer this time; warm and pleased and knowing.

"Yeah, well, all that _is_ pretty new…" his grin was unrepentant. "But I guess I'm managing."

Tom shook his head, unable to help his own smile, and then rolled his eyes in a clearly _rather you than me_ fashion.

They continued walking, till the woods were in sight.

"I'm, er, sorry about your mother," Gilbert offered carefully after a time. At Tom's haunted look he was quick to elaborate with a raised brow. "There are no secrets in Avonlea."

Tom nodded, his curt reply one Gilbert understood.

"Thanks."

Gilbert's expression darkened. "It's just that, my dad had consumption too."

Tom's own face now softened at the knowledge. "Oh. That's a real shame. I'm sorry for your own loss."

Gilbert stopped suddenly, his hazel eyes wide.

"Um, hey, it's… well, my dad's _alive,_ " he explained hesitatingly.

Tom turned to him.

"Ah… that's why we were away. For three years. In Alberta…" Gilbert swallowed. "The, er, _Prairie_ cure."

Tom's face had turned green. "There's a _cure_?" his blue eyes were out on stalks.

Gilbert cleared his throat and backtracked quickly.

"There's… there's not so much a cure as such but a _treatment…_ if you get the consumption early enough… it's still _experimental_ … er, that is, it's still not a _proven_ cure… more of an _attempt_ at it…" he trailed off lamely. "It took three years. But, I know, still, we were … lucky."

The silence hung heavy. Gilbert shuffled with new awkwardness, hands in pockets. Tom had frozen where he stood, his eyes fixed on some point on the ground, his features drawn sharp and tight. When he finally raised his eyes back to Gilbert's – the two boys virtually level with one another – Gilbert blanched to see the pain still lingering there.

Tom nodded, his voice strangled. "Well, then."

There was really nothing more to say to that.

The two of them reached the point where their paths home would diverge.

"Thanks, then," Tom offered, still a little shaken from their discussion. "For before."

"No problem. And hey – don't worry about Billy Andrews." Gilbert's smile grew arch. " _Or_ Mr Phillips."

* * *

Marilla's eyes registered her shock at Tom's appearance as he came through the door.

"Tom Caruthers! What is the _meaning_ of this?"

"I'm sorry, Marilla. I'll take them off now and wash them myself."

"You'll do no such thing!" Marilla came over from the sink to inspect the damage more closely. "They'll need to be soaked overnight at least."

Tom, embarrassed, avoided her eyes as she searched his face, noticing the scrape by his temple.

"What happened, Tom?"

"Marilla!" Matthew warned mildly from his seat, where he had been enjoying the newspaper. "Leave the boy alone."

Marilla pursed her lips. Tom said precious little about school and she hoped he was coping, and that it hadn't been too much to send him. But now she perhaps had an entirely new circumstance to worry about.

She held off on a lecture, and fetched his overalls, which she had in mind to wash but they could obviously wait. She handed them silently to him.

"Thank you, Ma'am. I'm sorry I was late. I'll put the books upstairs and then start on the chores."

Marilla looked to Matthew, and then back to the boy. This boy whom it pained her to see hurt, whose cheerful hard work toiling for them had lightened Matthew's load so much already, whose own gentleness had encouraged her to remember some of her own.

She put a hand on his arm.

"The chores can wait awhile, Tom. There's been another letter for you."

* * *

Another three months had passed; the Inspector was due his visit.

Mrs Cadbury fortified herself, well satisfied in the knowledge that both Anne and Tom were long gone. Martha would spend the day at her mother's, and had indeed left the previous evening; Cook would serve tea with ill-disguised, disgusted disapproval in the little parlour downstairs off the kitchen; he would get nowhere near the other children; there would be absolutely no biscuits.

They were rather astonished when he arrived. It was another Inspector, completely new to Mrs Cadbury; he was rather elderly and blundering, but affable; he liked the parlour perfectly fine, as he had trouble with stairs enough these days anyway; he took a cursory look at her books and hardly glanced at the children at all; he was in and out in barely an hour.

They none of them saw or heard of Mr Flagstaff again, and were extraordinarily glad of it.

* * *

Tom took up the letter to the little east gable room.

This time he tore it open quickly. He couldn't be hurt any more than he already had.

 _Dearest Tom_

 _Forgive my scratchings. I must write quickly. It's a bit over a month since you left, I think. I've lost track of the days. I haven't got long – Mrs Cadbury has just told me I'm to leave this afternoon, for my new place. It's a girl's home, though I have no idea where. She wants me to get an education. She really wants me to be away from here – she is terrified what the Inspector might still do._

 _She hasn't let me write to you. And I only have one letter of yours. Oh, Tom, what should I do? She says that we must protect you, that they might send you back if they knew you had no papers, that I mustn't try to write to you, that I have to wait until you're eighteen and can go out on your own. I vow I_ will _protect you, Tom! I will write a thousand letters in my head. I will imagine you tall - well,_ very _tall – and strong and healthy. And_ happy. _And that will be a great comfort to me, to know that you took your chance and used it well._

 _I won't ever forget you. And you'd better not forget about me! I will try everything to find you, when I can._

 _I need to have a way to give this to Martha. I have no money to give her so I hope she can eventually send it for me. She was sorry not to have said goodbye to you. She liked you very much._

 _I have our wooden figures, Tom. I will keep them close to my heart, which is where you'll be._

 _Love,_

 _Anne_

* * *

On Monday morning Tom took his new place one row further to the front of the Avonlea schoolroom, virtually where the children were. He took out his second reader determinedly, and awaited Mr Phillips' instruction. He seemed to be able to concentrate slightly better, now that he breathed easier.

At lunchtime he sat by his tree, with his apple that he had picked himself that weekend.

"Hey, tow-head! Will you need your mummy now that you're stuck with the babies? Oops! Too bad about that!"

Tom had been mulling over a lot of things the last few days, out in the orchard, or the fields, or the barn, with the September breeze stirring the leaves, which were turning from the golden hues of his mother's tresses to the russet red of someone else's. Soon they would turn to brown, like Marilla's hair long ago, or Matthew's rather impressive beard.

He had thought about luck and chance and Providence.

He had thought about waiting here till she found him again.

He had thought about _becoming the man she knew he could be._

Tom stood slowly. A little crowd had gathered; the usual suspects, naturally, but a few more besides, for Gilbert had wandered over, hazel eyes watchful, and the girls were always with Gilbert now, trailing in his wake. With him was Fred, invariably next to Diana with the dark hair.

"Take it back," Tom said softly, his eyes on Billy.

Billy laughed. " _That's_ hardly respectful."

"Take it back."

"You're kidding, right?"

Tom really wasn't. And he had done a lot of thinking, but he didn't need to think about this.

* * *

Billy Andrews had been sent home from school early that day. Mrs Harmon Andrews was frantic. The poor boy had been so eager to get back to his lessons after lunch that he had not even seen where he was going and had barrelled straight into a tree. His poor cheek had caught a dreadful bruise with it. She insisted he have a full two days off to recover.

When he returned to school, his usual band of supporters seemed to have dispersed. He wandered around with a solitary Pye for company. The girls tittered around Gilbert. And Gilbert sat with a motley collection of boys – one red faced, one goggle eyed, one with stick out ears, and one with dreadful blonde hair.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

" _ **What a comfort one familiar face is in a howling wilderness of strangers!"**_

 **Anne of the Island (Ch. 3)**

* _Anne of Green Gables_ (Ch.2)

** _Anne of Green Gables_ (Ch.1)

***Alexandre Dumas _The Three Musketeers_ (1844)

**** _Anne of Green Gables_ (Ch. 15)


	12. Chapter 12 Discovering Gold-Mines

_Thank you one and all for your wonderful reaction to a little part of the story of Tom. I cannot say how grateful I am for the way you have embraced this character!_

 _However, in the interests of fairness, here is a little Gilbert!_

 _W_ _ith thanks to those I haven't yet been properly able to - this time to **caprubia, Fyodora, G** and a special thanks to **Excel Aunt** -_

 _I hope you have your pretty little book of sonnets ready!_

* * *

 **Chapter Twelve**

 **Discovering Gold-Mines**

* * *

"Well _, this_ should be pretty straight forward, then," Gilbert's unashamed grin was firmly in place, and it only widened at Anne's expression of almost comical consternation.

Anne looked helplessly about them. They reclined inelegantly on the floor of the common room of Gilbert's boarding house, chosen specifically because, though not nearly as neat nor as pleasantly decorated as the one at Anne's, nonetheless attracted far less of an audience and – perhaps more fortuitously - far less of an insistence from the powers that be on tidying as they went. So they therefore felt leave to spread all their papers and books far and wide, in the cosy far corner they had commandeered, as they contemplated the Herculean English task before them.

Anne smoothed down her faithful dark green skirt with pale, nervous fingers. She lamented that it was not looking quite so smart as it once had. She wished she had been able to buy a new one whilst in Bolingbroke; she was heartily sick of seeing herself in the same clothes, and surely _he_ was too. Being around Phil and her limitless wardrobe during Christmas – her bedroom housing a veritable Aladdin's cave of silk and taffeta and velvet, accompanied by every conceivable accessory, and even some she'd thought rather _inconceivable_ \- had been its own little punishing penance for every tiny prideful thought she had ever had about her own appearance, occasional though they were. She noted Gilbert in a new jumper himself, stitched with obvious love and admirable skill, with a keen awareness for how that particular tawny brown called to the same highlights in his hazel eyes. She paused in her perusal over his dark brows, up to those irrepressible curls, and then her gaze swept down along his strong jaw, already fascinatingly shaded darker in this late afternoon. His lips curved into a small, seductive half smile when lost in concentration, and she wondered that she hadn't ever noticed that before. What couldn't fail to be noticed were his very dimensions, which had been made startlingly potent; the broad shoulders and the disconcertingly expanded biceps, straining against the jumper that was almost too snug, as if its creator had underestimated what a term up and down a football field could do; the tapering into lean torso and hips, and the long, muscled legs stretched out before him. _"Describe Adonis,"_ thought Anne, reddening despite herself, _"and the counterfeit/Is poorly imitated after you."_ _1_

Gilbert grabbed at the paper nearest him, to better review the notes he had made earlier that week in their first class back after Christmas, and remembered how he had bit the inside of his cheek so as not to grin in mounting joy as the full import of their assessment and what it entailed became clear. It meant a joint presentation before the class on five sonnets – two each and one shared – detailing interconnected themes, symbolism and language, with commentary on structure and syntax, and an exploration of Shakespeare's own relationship to both the sonnets and to his body of work as a whole.

What it _really_ meant was weeks of tantalisingly long, far-from-arduous hours with Anne, his presentation partner, in close and even intimate quarters, as they toiled over some of the most beautiful love poetry in the English language. Gilbert had wondered whether it would be wildly inappropriate to send their blessed English professor a very nice belated gift for Christmas.

Gilbert flicked a glance at Anne under long lashes, distracted by her fingers caressing the material of her skirt, which was such a wonderful color on her. He wished that everything she did wasn't quite so _sensual._ Sitting here with her, after all those weeks apart, blandly discussing their holidays, and then turning their attention to their work; well, it was its own unique form of torture. How he rolled his eyes now to reflect on that cocky, clueless idiot who had so laughed at his own reflection with such misguided confidence – _I will woo her one hundred and fifty four different ways –_ when certainly the joke was on _him_ given he could now hardly string a sentence together… _"Madam…"_ he sighed to himself, _"you have bereft me of all words._ _Only my blood speaks to you in my veins."_ 2

Perhaps he could _woo_ her from afar, or organise someone else far better equipped to do it for him – Fred, for instance, that dark horse, who had only come back from Avonlea with Diana on his arm, for crying out loud. The whole process for Gilbert would probably be easier, and certainly his work more productive, if Anne didn't look so beautiful or smell so lovely, and if she didn't do either whilst leaning over so that his erstwhile old friend, the cream blouse with the frills, didn't inadvertently move with her body and thus gape ever-so-slightly right in his direct line of sight, exposing a tantalising glimpse of moonbeam-pale flesh below her throat and he didn't dare hazard to think what else.

 _Get a hold of yourself, Blythe._

"So how do you recommend we do this?" Anne was shaking her head now, incredulous at the very thought of it.

"I propose an exhaustive statistical analysis comparing the sum total of sonnets available divided by the number of sonnets actually read more than once," he deadpanned.

"Oh, Gilbert!" she laughed, her look wry. "You mean just pick our favourites?"

"Exactly."

Anne rolled her eyes. "But _our_ favourites are going to be _everyone's_ favourites!"

"Not necessarily."

"Well, then, what's _your_ favourite?"

"Not so fast. How do I know you won't be so inspired that you copy me and insist on choosing the same to curry favour?"

She pursed her lips, adorably frustrated. He wished she wouldn't do that. It drew entirely too much attention to them.

"We surely wouldn't have the _same_ favourite…" she mused doubtfully. "There are _one hundred and fifty four_ of them."

Gilbert wasn't to be dissuaded. "It would definitely be an interesting psychological experiment. I'd bet that we probably have many common preferences at least."

 _We have so many things in common, Anne. We are perfect together. Can't you see it?_

He ripped off two strips of paper from his notebook with manufactured nonchalance.

"Right then, Miss Shirley. Confession time. Write the number of your favourite. We'll open each other's."

Seemingly bemused, Anne followed instructions, really feeling that when handing over her slip with a silly theatrical flourish she was really handing her heart over. She had recited her sonnet to herself a thousand times whilst she had been away; it was seared on her soul, it spoke to her as none of the others did. Of finding that _other_ who was the missing part of you; of having a love so brave and steadfast and sure it _"looks on tempests and is never shaken."_ 3 To be able to rely on someone so wholly and completely… she had never been able to do that, and wondered if she would ever be able to, though the idea of it was thrilling even as it was frightening.

She grazed Gilbert's fingers as she gave him the paper, and felt a little thrill of a different kind. She tried not to look at his hands, which were rather beautiful, as far as male hands went. She remembered how they had held her so deftly and surely the night of the fundraising dance; how they had drawn her to him when they had exchanged their gifts. She wondered, a little wantonly, what those long fingers would feel like sweeping her brow or caressing her cheek. She then immediately gave herself a little shake in reprimand.

Gilbert counted dramatically to three. Anne opened his slip. She saw her own number written there; _116._ _3_

She immediately laughed in nervous denial.

"Gilbert! Who told you? Was it Phil?"

Gilbert wore a rather strange expression. "Anne, no one told me."

"Surely they must have! Or I must have mentioned it…" she faltered, thinking to herself that she hadn't recalled mentioning particular sonnets to anyone, and Phil had become so teasing about her opening the collection of them every five minutes when she was in Bolingbroke that she'd given up doing it in her presence entirely.

"It's my own favourite, Anne," Gilbert affirmed quietly.

"It is?" she breathed.

"Of course …" he responded carefully, his eyes on hers. "Who doesn't want a love that lasts forever? That endures even when you're old? That's _"not Time's fool"_? 3

Anne thought that her heart had crawled up to lodge itself in her throat.

" _An ever-fixed mark…"_ 3 she murmured.

He smiled, small and knowingly. " _Yes_." He tried to infuse the word with as much hope and meaning as he could.

Anne's pulse thrummed, and her cheeks felt scarlet. "I'm sure that… that it is a popular choice, at any rate…" she hedged.

There was a pause. "Maybe…" he frowned, his brows drawing together.

Gilbert thought that if she kept pushing him away they wouldn't get anywhere. He knew she had so many walls up, built high, impenetrable, and he understood vaguely with her background as to why she would build them, but if she wouldn't let him scale at least one of them and let him peek over…

His frown caught her fingers fiddling again, and they were shaking. His own heart, which he had felt he had just laid bare to her, after keeping it protected himself enough for half his life, seemed to ache a strange accord with her. Perhaps Anne wasn't so much excited by what it was between them, and what could still develop… perhaps instead it made her uncertain and unsure. Perhaps it made her slightly … _terrified._

In that moment he hated himself.

He wished he could show her he was a little terrified too. He longed to hold her and for them to be excited and wondering and terrified together.

His look turned soft, as did his tone.

"Is it really such a stretch to think that _we_ might have a _"marriage of true minds"_ 3 Anne? Considering we didn't even come to blows over Dickens?"

His eyes were imploring, but he made his smile teasing, because that's how they both protected themselves… and that's perhaps what she needed from him, right now.

"Well, no, of course not…" her blush deepened, but her smile was relieved. "And we may have even agreed on _some_ things about him."

He shared his smile with her. He would wait as patiently as he could, he vowed to himself. _He_ would be that _ever-fixed mark_ for her _…_ till one of those walls started to crumble. Or at the very least till she showed him there was a window ajar somewhere.

* * *

Anne became very business-like thereafter, agreeing that if the idea of favourites was too fraught – and neither of them really liked the idea of dissecting their long-cherished lines in front of Ed Sanderson and company – that a process of elimination would be nonetheless helpful in narrowing the field. Sonnet 18 was out – _"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?"_ _4_ was clearly too well known to allow them much in the way of critical discovery. The very first and the very last two were likewise dismissed, as it was too obvious a choice to look at those that bookended the collection.

"And I'm sure common decency suggests we bypass Sonnet 151 5 too," he rolled his eyes to the heavens.

"Which one is that?" Anne queried, in the middle of drawing up a list of the more likely contenders that remained. "I don't remember that one offhand."

Gilbert felt the mild flush come to his cheeks. _He_ had perhaps perused it a mite too closely.

"Well, I don't think we should worry about that one, all the same."

She reached for her book of sonnets, giving him an arch of her eyebrow.

"Let _me_ give a second opinion!" she returned imperiously.

"Anne… just _trust_ me!" he shook his head in exasperation, and waited.

There was a very decided silence. Gilbert darted a quick glance at her, and had to bite down on his lip as those grey eyes widened in maidenly horror and the two pink spots on her cheeks darkened dramatically. He wondered which lines would have caused the strongest reaction? And concluded, probably _all of them._

Anne closed her copy with a resolute thump.

"Yes…" she ventured, drawing herself up in impressive schoolmarm indignation. She cleared her throat soundly. "We probably _don't_ need to worry about _that_ one."

* * *

It seemed as good a time as any to take a break, and Gilbert organised for some tea and snaffled a currant bun unclaimed at lunch for them to share.

Anne and he settled into chairs with their sonnet-inspired debris at their feet.

"So tell me," Gilbert tried to steer well clear of any other innuendo-laden literature, "did you prefer Alec or Alonzo then?"

Anne's surprised laugh threatened her mouthful of bun. She took a necessary moment.

"Isn't the question whom _Phil_ perhaps prefers, or they regarding her?" she gave a leading smile.

"The way Phil tells it – and she had my ear all during Mathematics mind you – it was more along the lines of her threatening to cast _you_ out, Anne Shirley, on account of interfering with the adulation she clearly expected for herself."

Anne rolled her eyes, but her little downturned smile looked a little too pleased for Gilbert's liking.

"Both Alec and Alonzo were charm personified," she now deflected like a master, "and _you_ would have gotten along with them famously, Gilbert Blythe," she parried.

Gilbert blew out a frustrated breath. "Well may you laugh at me, Anne Shirley, but I have depths to me so well hidden even _I_ haven't discovered them yet."

He meant it as another joke, as a joke in a long line of them, though it hurt him to make it.

"I know you have…" Anne's grey-eyed look to him was instantly mollified. "Gilbert – I didn't mean that you – "

"Anne, it's OK," he waved off her apology with his hand. "It was a joke. What say we get back to these sonnets then?"

She watched him gulp down the rest of his tea, noting the new flush to his cheeks that _she_ had put there. Anne was mortified to think she had hurt his feelings so casually. She had spent agonising days – and nights – thinking what she might say to him, and how they might be together, and what – if anything at all – might possibly happen between them, and _this_ is what she offered him? Is this really _all_ she could offer him? Did she not trust herself to offer more? Would she never let anyone – _him?_ \- help her see if she could?

"I visited my parents there!" she blurted in desperation.

Those hazel eyes turned to her, astonished.

"Sorry, Anne?"

"I…" she swallowed carefully, made difficult for the welling in her throat, "I visited my parents in Bolingbroke. Well, not _visited_ of course – that is – I went to the cemetery. Where they were buried."

Gilbert had risen to put his tea cup away, but now he sat down carefully, his eyes trained on hers.

"They… they were both teachers, I think I've mentioned," she began slowly. "They met at the school where they both taught. They were still very young, I understand, even when they had me… and they didn't have much money, besides. So when they died… the school put up a little headstone for them, at their gravesite. For their service."

She felt Gilbert's eyes still on her, although she could not meet them.

"They're buried in a pretty little green corner of the old part of the cemetery…" Anne grew very quiet. "I don't remember ever going there before. It's very lovely and peaceful there. They… they are buried together, in the one grave. I think… I rather think they would have liked that."

She impatiently brushed her tears away.

Eventually, she risked a look at Gilbert. His handsome, lean face was shadowed by her story, his brows drawn together, and his eyes were very dark. He wordlessly reached out his beautiful, long-fingered hand to her in silent sympathy, and she let herself clasp it.

They sat like that together, their hands a bridge between them, for what felt a very long time.

* * *

On Sunday they put aside their sonnets to gather at Diana's; their first group rendezvous since the Christmas break. There was Jane's engagement to celebrate, though her paramour had hot footed it back to the west to set their summer wedding in motion, leaving Jane behind with her wide smile of supreme contentment and the frighteningly large diamond that had taken up residence on her ring finger. Her token of Harry Ingliss' love and commitment – and wanton lack of decency, so Charlie moaned, for who dared follow _that_ now with their own modest future offerings? – was duly admired by the ladies as the gentlemen stood back, frowning in their vague general discomfort.

Love was definitely a palatable feeling in the air, thought Gilbert, noting the soft looks Fred and Diana shared as she passed around some biscuits and tea cake and feeling something of a paternal pride in seeing them finally together. Anne had obviously been delighted for them both as well; Gilbert had almost stumbled upon her intense, rather tearful exchange with Diana in the kitchen and beat a hasty retreat back to the sitting room. Talk of marriage and courtship did strange things to women – he couldn't dispute Charlie's grumbling logic there.

He was anxious to have Anne alone for a while, as they hadn't really talked since that emotional reveal she had made regarding her parents back on Friday afternoon. He felt as if a huge corner had been turned regarding her trust in him. He sensed how hard it was for her, and yet she had offered that part of herself to him despite it. He was desperate to show her he was worthy of her trust and of _her_ … that he was worthy… well… as a _suitor_.

There. He had made the leap for himself. He wanted to court her. He wanted to shout his intentions from the rooftops, rather than hide them away in his heart. He wanted to see Anne Shirley not just to discuss sonnets, though he certainly wouldn't mind whispering a few lines in her ear, but to see her whenever and wherever they pleased, and have the whole world know the reason why.

Perhaps he would trade off all this talk of engagements and such on the walk back to college with her. Phil, bless her, with a knowing, intuitive smile in his direction, strolled off arm in arm with Pris a friendly distance in front of them; sadly they couldn't shake Charlie no matter what they did. Gilbert was stuck having Anne between them all the way back, as he tried to impart his feelings towards her with the intensity of his eyes and smile alone, his fingers itching to hold hers again, all the while darkly plotting Charlie's downfall, by means deathly if absolutely necessary.

* * *

They met again on the Tuesday; they absolutely had to lock in their choice of sonnets in order to notify the Professor in class the following day, and then it would be only a fortnight before the presentations were to begin. And it wasn't as if the remainder of their classes were frozen in time, either; the rate of new topics and new assessments was dizzying, as if their various professors had awoken from a great post-Christmas slumber to find that their students hadn't been worked nearly as hard as they ought, and each sought immediate and exacting ways to rectify their lapse.

Anne feared she had embarrassed herself at Diana's, and not for the first time; crying into her lovely friend's shoulder, hearing from her how another long-ago friend had received the letter she had sent him, drinking in the description of him and building upon the snatches she now knew of him and his life in Avonlea. She didn't know at all how the letter would be received, and Diana hadn't had the time or opportunity to wait for an answer, if there was to be one; he had all her particulars now, however, and Diana's Kingsport address besides; Anne had written that she remembered him frequently and fondly; that she had never forgotten what they had meant to one another; and that she wished him all the very best that life's choices – and chances – could bring him. That he was in the world and faring well was all that she could have ever wanted for him, and she had some measure of peace that she knew this now. Beyond that, Anne didn't dare have any expectations, and could hardly have admitted, even to herself, whether she wanted to.

In the meantime there was work, here, in Kingsport, an entire strait – and perhaps another world – away from Avonlea. And there was Gilbert, stretched out atop the rug on the common room beside her, his hazel eyes very intense on hers.

"What were you thinking, Anne?"

"Just idle thoughts," she smiled a little shyly.

"I doubt _you_ have had an idle thought in your life!" he offered generously. " _I,_ on the other hand, seem to be completely overtaken by them today…"

"Such _as_ , Mr Blythe?"

"Such as _sleep."_ He stretched gracefully, as if emphasising his point. "I miss it. I don't know where it goes to these days… Such as why a cat has nine lives but they only give a dog _one_ … Such as why Shakespeare wrote _quite_ so many sonnets."

Anne laughed, bemused by this side of him.

I have absolutely no experience of cats, or dogs for that matter, so I couldn't possibly conjecture."

"My mother is somewhat overly fond of cats," his grimace was endearing. "My father and I are rather undecided."

"Your mother would _love_ Kingsport, then!"

"Yes!" he chuckled. "The ferocious felines are _everywhere!_ "

They shared a smile and another companionable look.

"I know what you mean by the sonnets, too," she sighed. "Though it pains me to say it."

"We _have_ narrowed it down a little…." Gilbert paused to lean over to see Anne's list. Which was a decidedly foolhardy move, as he was invaded by the scent of lilies, that tantalising hint of home, and had to physically restrain himself from burying his nose in her hair like a pig searching out truffles. He would have quickly withdrawn, disgusted by his weakness, but then he saw her redden, and dart a glance at him under her lashes, and he took advantage enough to lean in a little closer still and trace his index finger slowly down the paper.

Anne's blush remained and so did her eyes on her list for several minutes.

Gilbert smiled to himself. Just because he was trying his best to be _patient_ , needn't mean he had to stop trying altogether.

"Right, then, Miss Shirley. Let's consider. We have around twelve remaining on our list. We need to get it down to _five_ – two each and one we tackle together."

"Should we arrange the hopefuls thematically, stylistically or symbolically?"

"How about alphabetically?"

Anne rolled her eyes.

"Which particular sonnets _speak_ to you, Gilbert?"

"Now you sound like a teacher I had back in Avonlea," he grinned.

" _You_ were a teacher back in Avonlea!"

"Yes, well, when it came to poetry I just told mine to consider them like a mathematical equation. Subject plus rhyme plus meter equals interpretation."

"Oh Gilbert, you didn't!"

"I might have done," his look was smug. "Or I might have been tempted to, at least."

"You are _incorrigible."_

"Yes, I was told that, on occasion. I may still be able to spell it for you too."

She grinned back and shook her head in admonishment. She could never best him when he was being playful like this. And moreover she was fast losing the will to want to.

His eyes were full of his trademark mischief, and they searched out hers and held them.

"What about _symbolism?"_ Anne squeaked.

"Pardon?"

"Symbolism? In your poetical equation."

"I was never much good at looking for hidden meanings," he murmured. "I'm much better off when I see the beauty of things right in front of me."

Anne reddened to the roots of her hair.

"Shall I get the tea then?" she jumped up, a sprung lock, hardly risking the wait for his reply.

* * *

"So obviously the uniting factors of all the sonnets are the passage of time and how it wreaks havoc; the fleeting nature of beauty and how best to memorialise it; and the idea of attraction and… ah… the two shades of it – a perfect, almost idealised love and the… that is the… depiction of passion."

Anne's cheeks had grown decidedly pink.

"That's an excellent summary," Gilbert nodded, his fingers steepled before him. "Should we take a section each, with the joint sonnet being the third theme?"

"We could…" Anne faltered. "But neither of us really want to tackle the Dark Lady sequence, and yet that is an entire thematic section unto itself. Would we be doing ourselves a disservice if we didn't directly address it?"

"I don't know…" Gilbert frowned. "But you _are_ talking about 126 sonnets versus only 28 for the Dark Lady – percentage-wise it would be a fair call to concentrate on the Fair Youth ones."

"The poor Dark Lady…" Anne sighed. _"My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun."_ 6 And later, in Sonnet 141, here, _"In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes/ For they in thee a thousand errors note."_ _7_ It's just an inventory of the ways he finds her unattractive but he will use her shamelessly anyway. Honestly, Shakespeare was abhorrent at times. His language and his tone throughout that sequence is so disappointingly offensive. He really didn't like her very much, or the _idea_ of her very much."

"Or he liked her _too_ much…" Gilbert challenged with a raised eyebrow. "And either hated himself for it or was trying to throw everyone off the scent. Look at your previous sonnet to your first one mentioned…" he shuffled through some papers to pick up his trusty _Complete Works_ , flipping through the pages quickly."Number 129." Gilbert paused, his hazel eyes quickly scanning the darkly passionate language, and he swallowed carefully and paraphrased swiftly. "Er… he talks of a _waste of shame… perjured… full of blame…_ " 8 He realised he could quickly dig another hole for himself, and deflected attention. "And of course this is all supposing there _was_ a Dark Lady to begin with."

"No Dark Lady? No love affair with her? You don't believe there was a real Fair Youth, either?"

"Does it matter?" he offered pointedly.

"Wordsworth was of the opinion that he believed the sonnets were autobiographical – he wrote they _"express Shakespeare's own feelings in his own person."_ _9_

"I think that's a great comfort to people, to believe these characters were real, instead of the efforts of a talented writer loving seeing his work in print, and shoring up his patronage for the next twenty years."

"Oh, Gilbert! _Really!_ "

He chuckled now at Anne's horrified expression.

"I fear we _are_ back to Dickens, now," he groaned. "You know you very much personally identify with the works you really like, Anne. Or _vice versa_."

She was busily rolling her eyes at this new affront, and didn't observe the fond look he gave her.

" _This_ from the person who can recite _Romeo and Juliet_ backwards!" she huffed.

"I can also recite _Origin of the Species_ backwards, but alas it doesn't make me Charles Darwin."

Anne was back to pursing her lips again, but Gilbert steeled himself against their allure.

"Whether there was a Fair Youth or not, Anne Shirley, does it make you love Sonnet 116 any less?" he asked quietly, his eyes drinking hers.

Anne's cheeks heated, but something in her was able to hold his gaze.

"No," she admitted.

"Me neither," he answered resolutely.

* * *

They finally decided on their sonnets, and in perfect time too; Gilbert would have the opportunity to walk Anne back to her dorms before they both missed out on their dinner.

The common room was slowly gaining other occupants; it felt to both of them as if their intellectual idyll had been rudely interrupted by uninvited interlopers. Gilbert stretched again and rolled his shoulders; football practice had been rather punishing today. He may have noticed Anne's gaze tracking his movements, which may have made him exaggerate them slightly. But then, her brows drew together as she looked beyond him, and she turned her face away quickly.

"I see our not-so- _Fair Youth_ is still in residence," she muttered in a low voice.

Gilbert glanced back to the doors, and noted the most unwelcome sight of George Peters, just come in with a friend, and giving them a cold-eyed glare before lounging insolently in the other corner.

"Yes, unfortunately, but don't mind him, Anne. He keeps a very low profile these days. At least around _me._ " There was a little something to Gilbert's tone that was proudly defiant.

Anne was flustered now despite herself, and Gilbert put a steadying hand on her arm ever briefly before helping her gather her notes.

"As long as he's not causing you any trouble," Anne expelled a long breath but was still obviously disconcerted.

Gilbert's hand was lightly at her back as he lost no time in ushering her out.

"He might experience plenty of trouble himself, now, you know," Gilbert couldn't resist a smirk. "He's been seen in the frequent company of one Miss Monroe since we came back from Christmas break."

"Well, _that's_ an undoubted _marriage of true minds_ , then," Anne flashed with admirable fierceness, in a way that made Gilbert want to hug her.

Instead he chuckled delightedly, looking down on her with an unrestrained grin and not at all at George Peters as they sailed straight by him.

* * *

Anne waited in the foyer of his dormitory for Gilbert, who sprinted through the doors ten minutes' late, having, it appeared, collected clothing and books as he had travelled through the day, without having the chance to unload anything, and thus looked both amusingly preposterous – and fetchingly dishevelled – juggling both his Biology and Chemistry textbooks, his football boots, a folder of notes marked Student Council, a jacket and an umbrella, and something that looked suspiciously like it had once been his lunch.

"I'm sorry I'm late, Anne!" he had the consideration to gasp, for had he not even had the audacity to be slightly out of breath as well – even accounting for being football captain – after such an obviously frantic day Anne might have given up on him entirely and packed herself off home.

"Gilbert! You're only missing the kitchen sink, I believe!" she couldn't help laughing.

"Wait a minute. I think it's here somewhere," he sighed, and then collapsed into the nearest armchair, promptly unloading everything into a scattered heap on the floor.

"I rarely think there are enough hours in the day…" Anne mused, grinning. "But then I think of _you,_ and it makes my life seem quite manageable after all."

He groaned rather loudly, too tired to chuckle. "The penance for teasing is to get the tea, Miss Shirley," he closed his eyes momentarily and tipped his head back against the headrest.

"Very well, then," she leaned in, close to his ear, and before the electric current of her nearness had appropriately shocked him out of his stupor, making him sit up with comical alacrity, she was quickly headed towards the kitchen to place a request with one of the staff on duty, Gilbert turning to watch her go, glad she couldn't see the naked admiration and longing in his eyes.

 _Goodness, wouldn't_ she _be something to come home to at the end of a long day…_

He let out a slow breath.

Anne returned shortly with a tray and even half a dozen little sandwiches.

"Anne, you are a marvel!"

"I bet you say that to all the girls."

"Only the ones who feed me."

She watched Gilbert demolish a cup of tea and five of the six sandwiches with a fondness that pained her. These new little touches of domesticity between them – tea, sandwiches, meeting up at the end of the day – had just crept up on them. They had seen one another in class and out of it so frequently these past two weeks that even the elderly, amiable night porter who would usually start his shift almost as she was leaving knew her name now.

Anne was pleased to note Gilbert's body relaxing and those hazel eyes brighten with their trademark gleam. She felt entirely too bereft thinking this was their last sonnet study session together and that once their presentation was given there would be no excuse to seek out this type of intimacy again. She did not pine over the things she had never had or experienced- she had soon learned that was the easiest path to despair – but she really thought that _this_ … the whole of _this_ with Gilbert … was a beautiful gift that someone had given her by mistake, and they were very soon to come and reclaim it.

She had been watching him but hadn't realised that he had turned his eyes to her, and only his soft words to her now pierced her reverie.

"I'll miss this, Anne," he ventured, reading her thoughts.

She met his eyes and then looked away. "You'll miss me waiting on you?"

"No. I think you know what I mean."

She cleared her throat very carefully. "Yes, I'll miss it too."

He took this as the clear encouragement he had waited for. "So let's not _miss_ it then!" he leaned forward. "Who says we can't go on being study partners?"

She gave a wry smile, though it was a little broken around the edges.

"Study partners who have nothing to study together anymore?"

"We can just study alongside one another. We don't have to study subjects _together_ , although we still have English for a good while yet. And we are on to all those romantic poets next. You'll definitely have to hold my hand through them."

She reddened at his allusion to _hand holding_ , but her blush was a pleased one.

"I guess… I guess we _could_ still study together," she conceded, biting her lip.

His heart beat hopefully, and he gave an encouraging smile. "Settled, then."

They exchanged a long look.

"Well, Anne, I'd better dump all this stuff upstairs, and then we can go over the presentation one more time. We're definitely ready to do it tomorrow."

"Yes, I think so too."

"No one else will volunteer, I'm sure of it. _So_ … after we've dazzled them with our brilliance…"

"Oh, well, yes, naturally!" she laughed.

He paused. He felt the flush to his cheeks, and thought errantly of Fred.

"Well, I was thinking after class, if you would like to join me, Anne, and I would like it very much … well, my suggestion is that we go along to a little tea room to celebrate."

Gilbert waited several beats. He felt all his future happiness hinged on this one plan, and on her answer. In the wake of their wonderful presentation and the clear feelings of triumph its' reception was sure to engender, they would laugh and smile and tease over tea and cream cakes, and then he would ask to court her. _Finally._

Oh, that beautiful blush.

"That sounds… rather lovely."

Her grey eyes shone very green. She wouldn't have given that answer so unreservedly two weeks ago, he was sure of it. But he had been very patient, and he had been very gentle, and he had put one foot in front of the other very carefully as he scaled that wall of hers. _"…The orchard walls are high and hard to climb…_ " 10

And now, he was almost at the very top. _"With love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls, For stony limits cannot hold love out…"_ _11_

It made him catch his breath at the thought. He couldn't wait to see the view on the other side.

* * *

The firm knock at the door of his room startled Gilbert out of his chemistry-induced comatose state. He glanced at his clock; it was nearly nine in the evening. Perhaps it was Charlie or one of the other fellows with some sort of query. Quite frankly he would welcome the distraction; he wasn't getting anywhere with his work tonight; his thoughts kept straying to Shakespeare. Well, more accurately, they kept straying to his titian haired comrade-in-arms in all things Shakespeare. Well could he have written the lines of one particular sonnet up on his noticeboard; _"Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed."_ _12_

Instead he clung to the tantalising thought… _"Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow…"_ _13_ he smiled to himself, and his smile was still in place when he opened the door.

"Mr Fitzgerald!" Gilbert greeted, flabbergasted.

"Young Mr Blythe…" old Mr Fitz, their night attendant, frowned back at him. He was a known and rather beloved presence to all the young men under this particular roof; he made a definite contrast to the grumpiness of some of the other staff, and he could be generously relied upon to look the other way if you happened to sneak a visitor out just after curfew, though Gilbert was yet to test this particular point.

"Mr Fitz? Is there something I can help you with?"

"This is most unusual, Mr Blythe! I feel it's rather improper… I hardly know what to make of it!"

"Mr Fitz?" Gilbert queried again.

"Your young lady, Mr Blythe! She's _downstairs._ I must remind you that we discourage this kind of behaviour most _comprehensively_!"

" _My young lady_?" Gilbert replied blankly, even as his heart skittered.

"Your _Miss Shirley!_ " Mr Fitz's tone had lowered to a dramatic stage whisper, and his clear agitation brought on a paroxysm of coughing.

 _Anne_ was _downstairs?_ Gilbert's eyes flew wide in astonishment. He struggled to fix one wayward suspender; he was only in trousers and rolled up shirt sleeves, but he was decent enough, and it looked like Mr Fitzgerald would collapse against the doorframe if he delayed any longer.

"Sorry, Sir, I'll come straight down," Gilbert followed the old man out, impatiently now keeping pace with his laborious journey back down the stairs, which was inhibited by further coughing.

"You're quite well, Sir? That's a dreadful cough there." Gilbert had a naturally inherent concern for coughs now, especially in older folk.

Mr Fitzgerald waved a gnarled, impatient hand in dismissal.

"Had my share of coughs, sonny. This one surely is no better or worse than all the rest."

Gilbert couldn't help admire his resilience, even as he gave him a grateful nod and hastened into the foyer.

" _Anne?_ "

The laughing girl he had seen mere hours ago, with whom he fully expected to enjoy his regular rendezvous – his dreamy assignation in every respect- later that evening, and whom he could hardly wait to see in glorious flesh tomorrow, stood white faced now before him, dressed in her travelling suit, with a rather dilapidated and horrendously hued carpet bag of what may have started life as dead lettuce green but could only now be called pea soup putrid at her feet. Before he had even taken in her appearance fully – the pale hands being rung, the quivering lips, the utterly distracting cascade of glorious hair in a single, thick braid over one shoulder, as if she had not had the time or presence of mind to pin it back up - she had marched quickly towards him, talking with breathless, panicked rapidity.

"Gilbert! I am so sorry! To call – to visit – to come so late! I didn't know what else to do! I'm sorry but I can't possibly do the presentation with you tomorrow!"

"Anne!" he took her elbow, and up close she was trembling. "Whatever's happened?"

"Could you please give my apologies in class tomorrow? Show all our notes if needed to prove we were ready?"

"Anne, please, you're very upset! Don't worry about the presentation! Come and sit down with me for a minute. I'll get you some water."

"I'm fine, Gilbert! I don't have time to sit down!"

"You have a minute," he spoke to her firmly, his voice lowering and his eyes fixed on her. He took her elbow gently and steered her to the few chairs away from the front desk and a rather agog Mr Fitz.

By the time she sat down she was already in tears.

"Gilbert! I can't stay! Thank you for your concern but… I need to go. There's the train at ten. I must be on it!"

" _Train,_ Anne? What are you talking about? The train to where?"

"Summerside."

" _Summerside?"_

She took a great gasp of air, whether to hold the gush of tears back or to fortify her speech he couldn't say.

"I need to get to my friend in Summerside. _Immediately._ I had news today after I left you. Matron Burgess from the girl's home wouldn't have contacted me if it wasn't so serious. I had no idea! None at all, Gilbert! When I visited her over new year she was pale but fine – she was recovering from a bad bout of influenza. That's what she told me! I know you can ache badly from that – I never thought anything of it! But it must be so very bad, Gilbert! It's terrible! I have to get to her. If I failed to get to her in time I would never be able to live with myself!"

There were so many things in that one explanation alone that Gilbert had to let slide he didn't know where to start. Anne had never mentioned _Summerside_. She had never mentioned any other _friends_ outside their own mutual acquaintance. She hadn't mentioned knowledge of any _girls' home._ She was on named terms with some _Matron._ She had gone – presumably by _herself_ \- to visit this apparent friend over _new year_ \- thanks for sharing _that_ detail Philippa Gordon - when she should have been safe in Bolingbroke. His mind reeled with the assault of information he was trying to process.

During his brief mind melt Anne had extracted a crumpled telegram from her pocket. The paper moved unsteadily as she handed it to him.

MISS ANNE SHIRLEY STOP KATHERINE BROOKE GRAVELY ILL STOP REQUEST COME AT ONCE STOP MATRON B END

"Anne – I know you're worried but could it perhaps wait till the morning…?" he faltered. He didn't like the look of any of it, truth be known. Anne was right – no matron hours away in Summerside was going to go to the expense of a telegram, let alone one with descriptions such as _gravely ill –_ without good reason. He quickly scanned the time it was sent – this morning. He swallowed carefully. It might already be too late.

Anne seemed not to have registered his feeble protest at any rate.

"I've left a letter with my boarding house mistress…" she struggled, beginning to lose her composure completely. "There wasn't time to see Phil or Pris – they – they – _debating…_ " she gulped.

"Anne – you're not thinking of travelling hours at night by yourself?"

She stood up like a bewildered jack-in-the-box. "I'll be fine, Gilbert! I will alert the conductor. I… I'm sorry about class…" she moved to her carpet bag.

"Anne! Wait for me! I'll come with you!"

Anne's eyes were a little wild on his.

" _Gilbert?_ "

"I'll come with you. You _cannot_ go alone, Anne."

Anne looked at him uncomprehendingly. "No, Gilbert, you can't!"

"Well, yes, actually, I can and what's more I _must_. I won't let you go all that way alone. Give me ten minutes."

She was shaking her head dazedly. "Gilbert!"

"Anne! You're using up my ten minutes!"

"Gilbert! You… you _can't_ come! It wouldn't be _right!"_

" _Anne!"_ his eyes stared down into hers. "I'm not concerned about _propriety_ here – I'm concerned about _you._ It's an issue of your wellbeing. It's an issue of your _safety!"_

She opened and closed her mouth ineffectually. And then she began to cry.

He led her back to the chair.

" _Please,_ Anne," he let his forehead rest against hers briefly. "Ten minutes."

He fished out his hankerchief and pressed it into her hand. And then he jogged over to the front desk.

"Mr Fitzgerald, thank you for your understanding. As you can see Miss Shirley is most distressed. She received some terrible news about… about a _family_ member." Gilbert paused on this point. He had no idea whom this poor Katherine Brooke was, but Anne's reaction over the news spoke of her close relationship, and it might as well be family for her.

"Could you see that Miss Shirley gets a glass of water and doesn't move from her chair? I need to pack some things quickly, and I'll be back down _very_ shortly. I'll need to accompany Miss Shirley to Summerside to be with her… _family."_

Oh, that loaded word again. As loaded and meaningful as _friends_ ever was. He wondered, for the very first time, which one he was being to her by these actions now; which role was he finding himself in? Which role or combination thereof would _she_ want him to adopt?

"Mr Fitz, I will have one or two notes for you to pass on for me. It will be _most_ important that they reach their recipients, you understand."

"Very good, young Mr Blythe. You can trust me I'm sure. And… and the nearest cabs, for your information, are the turn left as you head out of the college on the road behind us."

Gilbert nodded his thanks, took a fleeting, agonised look at Anne sitting with her face buried in his hankerchief, and bolted up the stairs.

The panic pressed in on him up in his room, as he flew about dressing himself and shoving possessions into his bag with the random hope he was remembering everything. Was he doing the right thing? _Yes_ , to safeguard Anne he was doing the right thing, and in that moment, and on that very central consideration, he was firm, though his confidence in how others would perceive it was frayed around the edges. And typically, he may have had a friend to run into to consult, but tonight all had been ironically, insultingly quiet and still, with everyone out at activities or retreated to their rooms like rabbits to their burrows, leaving he and Anne and Mr Fitz as the only people who seemed to exist in the world.

Gilbert dashed off two quick notes; to his boarding house master and to their genial English professor, urging that through their own roles these two may make the reason for their absence known to the relevant others.

On his desk sat the two great tomes; the twin influences on his life up until now. _The Complete Works of William Shakespeare_ , which stared back at him with mocking reproach; his heart mourned momentarily to think how differently he had envisioned tomorrow to be from the alternative path that was fast forming before him.

The other hefty reference, his favourite among many, and snaffled from Uncle Dave a few years ago, he stared at now with pained indecision he had no time to indulge in. He was definitely no doctor; he was no medical student; he was the son of a farmer, who read and dreamed. But he thought his own borrowed knowledge might at least be equal to that of a matron in a girls' home.

Gilbert added _Physicians' Hand-book_ _14_ to his scattered packed possessions and lugged his bag downstairs.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

" ' _ **You are always discovering gold-mines,' said Gilbert – also absently." Anne of the Island**_ **(Ch. 20)**

1 William Shakespeare from _Sonnet 53_

2 William Shakespeare _The Merchant of Venice_ (Act 3 Sc 2)

3 from _Sonnet 116_

4 from _Sonnet 18_

5 _Sonnet 151,_ part of the so named rather erotic 'Dark Lady' sequence comprising sonnets 127-152, is known for being particularly 'bawdy' and full of sexual innuendo and allusions to sexual passion, as opposed to the nobler, spiritual love directed to the 'Fair Youth' of sonnets 1-126. The speaker in the poem accuses the Dark Lady of infidelity with the Fair Youth ('Then, gentle cheater') even as he himself blames her for him giving in to his own base desires. There is much talk of 'rise' and 'fall' and its clear allusion to male anatomy. I am trusting my version of Anne is quite intelligent enough to get the general inferences, even if she – mostly - lacks the life experience to understand them.

Poor Anne, confronted with lines such as 'For betraying me, I do betray/My nobler part to my gross body's treason' and 'flesh stays no farther reason/But rising at thy name doth point out thee/As his triumphant prize.'

Poor Gilbert, for that matter. Though he probably shouldn't have mentioned this one in the first place.

6 from _Sonnet 130_

7 from _Sonnet 141_

8 from _Sonnet 129_

9 referenced in _Shakespeare's Sonnets by William Shakespeare_ , William James Rolfe (ed.) (1898)

Though this edition is published a clear decade and a half _after_ my conversation about it takes place at Redmond, I like to feel that Wordsworth's full views on Shakespeare – of whom he was _not_ universally admiring, much preferring Milton – would have been sufficiently in the public domain. Or at the very least known to keen scholars at college.

10 William Shakespeare _Romeo and Juliet_ (Act 2 Sc 2)

11 _Romeo and Juliet_ (Act 2 Sc 2)

12 from _Sonnet 27_

13 William Shakespeare _Macbeth_ (Act 5 Sc 5)

14 _Physicians' Hand-book and American medical advertiser_ (1855)

Courtesy of the database of the US National Library of Medicine

I am using this as inspiration for something Gilbert could have used prior to his actual medical studies, although I somewhat hope he was able to come by a slightly more recent edition


	13. Chapter 13 Guesses for Truth

_Dear Wonderful People_

 _Thank you for anyone who has been checking in on this latest update – include some very sweet guests – wondering if I had disappeared off the face of the earth, considering this has taken me an extra week to hammer out. Perhaps it is that pesky number thirteen at work – was Josie whispering in my ear like she did when canon Anne was number 13 for the exams for Queen's?!_

 _At any rate, it is a relief to have this chapter out for you. Again I am drowning in a sea of verbosity, and I do apologise. My next chapter might well be in the form of a cinquain poem._

 _Speaking of poems, thank you to all for your lovely comments and enthusiasm for my dip into all those sonnets! I did enjoy those, but we might let the Bard take a little break for a while – mostly!_

 _If any of my particular support crew on this site happen to see a little winking nod to their own work or ideas here, I hope you like it!_

 _As ever, thank you to everyone who is helping paddle this story canoe with me. There are still quite a few rapids ahead!_

 _Best wishes_

 _Joanne x_

* * *

 **Chapter Thirteen**

 **Guesses for Truth**

* * *

 _ **Summerside Home for Girls**_

 _ **Summerside, Prince Edward Island**_

 _ **September 1876**_

 _The Summerside Home for Girls received its' most recent resident with the subdued, purposeful, respectful air it tried to instil in all its young charges. It would not have coped well with the chattering magpie of seven months ago, but the drab pea hen who now appeared – but for the flash of spark of her hair, if not in her bearing – was perfectly acceptable. The dull grey uniform married perfectly with the dull, grey eyes and gave the overall impression of a shadow, and possibly the figure itself felt just as insubstantial._

 _Anne thought that Mrs Cadbury would have wept for the considered calm of the quiet halls here as much as for the hospital corners on the beds. She would have dropped to her knees in thanks for the neatly folded uniforms laid out each night in preparation for the day to come, and the synchronised and non negotiable bedtime routine of wash, prayer and sleep. There was no pleading, cajoling or threatening with the withdrawal of supper. There were no bedtime stories. There was assuredly no galloping headless horseman._

 _The Home prided itself on the opportunities presented to its' girls; no illiterate scullery maids to be farmed out here; only proper ladies' maids in one of the big houses. They were presenting to the world a new, educated working class girl to fill the shops and the tea rooms; the most promising might be governesses or teachers, or go on to nursing in the 'Nightingale' tradition. To this end there was an emphasis on good grammar and diction as much as the creation of a good sampler; everyone must know a little more than their basic figures and rather enough to construct a decent letter of introduction, let alone a signature at the end of it; there was an hour of required reading each day with an emphasis on the classics, though there was always some polite debate as to what the classics actually constituted._

 _Anne had her own little exercise book for her compositions. And she didn't even have to rely on the gift of a pencil earned by a boy with large, calloused hands in trade for chopping wood up and down the street. She had several of them, and they were soon worn down to the stubs; it was the only tiny, flickering flame of hope and interest and life she experienced in the otherwise smothering blanket of joylessness._

 _Miss Katherine Brooke was one of three teaching staff from the large, distinguished and financially well endowed High School on the other side of the town to share duties here, and who made the journey twice a week to oversee the educational needs of the girls in the Home. She couldn't quite say why she dedicated the extra time and effort to do it; she certainly had enough on her plate if she was going to head off one of the dreadful, hopeless Pringles as Head of English in the foreseeable future. Katherine Brooke was a young woman of clipped words and iron determination; of steel resolve and sharp intellect; and resolutely, defiantly unimaginative. Perhaps others might have imagined that a girl orphaned herself at age seven, with only the indifferent, if not downright begrudging, attentions of an avaricious uncle and his family thereafter, might have found herself drawn to assisting others in a similar situation; particularly those at the very same institution she herself had grown up in. Katherine Brooke would certainly never have owned to it, and would have laughed scornfully if anyone had suggested such sentimentality. She did it for the experience and the additional pay from the rather generous - if overly pious – Home benefactors, and nothing more. Although if one of the Home girls did occasionally best one of the Pringles on an exam from time to time, through the benefit of her own tutorage, then that was an additional and edifying bonus._

 _Now Katherine Brooke sat this Saturday morning and marked compositions with the same swift strokes with which she tackled most aspects of her life. Much of the work of the girls here was adequate if uninspired, and yet an 'adequate' standard for an orphan was rather its own little victory. She now paused, fairly perturbed, by the exercise book before her; her bushy black brows ascending on the long journey to her high forehead, and her unusual amber eyes were round in uncharacteristic astonishment._

" _Whom, pray tell, is Anne Shirley?"_

 _The girl of fifteen or so, herself also a past resident of the Home and now Katherine Brooke's hapless, generally fearful and somewhat reluctant current protege, having finally embarked on her own teaching qualifications, quailed at the tone coming from the redoubtable older girl – who seemed in so many ways a middle aged woman already - on the opposite side of the table._

" _Anne Sh-Shirley is one of the new girls, Miss Brooke. Come over all the way from Hopetown. Nova Scotia, mind!"_

"' _Anne Shirley is one of the new girls to_ arrive to us _from Hopetown,' is how we might explain ourselves, Miss Baker. No wonder you are taking your qualifications in mathematics and not English."_

" _Yes, Miss Brooke."_

" _She arrived from the asylum at Hopetown, you say?"_

" _Yes, Miss Brooke."_

 _Katherine Brooke frowned to herself. Margaret Cadbury's girl._

" _And why have I not even seen her these three weeks since the term began?"_

" _She… she has been here all the while, Miss Brooke. You're not likely to miss her. She has completely red hair."_

 _There was a notable pause._

" _I cannot even fathom where we failed regarding your grammar, Miss Baker, let alone your deplorable disinterest in your vocabulary. I know nothing of a girl with red hair. Besides which her hair color, red or otherwise, is clearly immaterial."_

" _No, Miss Brooke. I mean – yes, Miss Brooke. That is, her hair is covered by the cap the girls wear, Miss Brooke."_

" _So then, obviously, she would have precious little red hair to display by means of identification in the first place, Miss Baker."_

" _I would say… ah… yes, Miss Brooke."_

 _Katherine Brooke's sigh would have been despairing, if she was one given to such excesses._

" _Miss Baker?"_

" _Yes, Miss Brooke?"_

" _Fetch me Anne Shirley."_

* * *

Anne and Gilbert made the train by mere minutes; their breathless lunge towards the carriage would have encouraged irrepressible, knowing laughter but for the sad matter of their mission. There were, unsurprisingly, few passengers at this lonely hour, and those already settled were hardly pleased to see them.

Gilbert looked around and then indicated his hand towards the window with its cluster of two seats either side; he raised his dark eyebrows in question to Anne before gaining her nod of ascent; already they had disputed over payment of the cab fare and the train tickets, and he didn't even want to rehash the tussle when he offered to carry her carpet bag, only to be given a panicked glare and general mutterings that it was delicate and _she_ was the only one who could manage the wayward handles.

"Well, small wonder, Anne. It's falling apart! It must be as old as you are!"

" _It is_ ," she responded huffily, most effectively silencing him on that front.

They settled down gratefully and divested themselves of coats, gloves and hats, placing them and their bags on the spare seats beside them, quite certain that no one would come to want to claim them. Anne had recovered somewhat from her earlier upset; her face was pale and her eyes disconcertingly large and limpid, but they did not appear quite so haunted as before; then he chanced a glance at himself through the window's reflection as the train pulled away and started in mild horror, and momentarily forgot all about Anne's appearance in his own desperate attempt to straighten tie, jacket collar and, naturally, inevitably, his hair.

He caught her little smile at his efforts when he turned back to her, and he rolled his eyes, and a little of the tension seemed to break between them, like the welcome relief of the smattering of rain after the build up to a storm.

"Thank you so much for coming with me, Gilbert," Anne ventured after a moment, her voice a little tremulous but still holding firmly to the words.

"You're very welcome, Anne, though I can't say as I gave you much choice, really," he flushed slightly, remembering his dogmatic insistence, fed by his own panic. "I hope you don't feel that… that I, well, _overreached_ myself."

She was all eyes at this remark; she noted his flush deepen even as it fed her own. Then she smiled sweetly and shook her head.

"I can't say as _I_ was behaving or thinking very rationally at any rate myself," she shrugged her slight shoulders. "Katherine would most definitely have _not_ approved! _"_ she allowed her smile of chagrin.

"I think even your Katherine Brooke would forgive you this one particular instance," Gilbert offered a tentative smile of his own.

"I wouldn't be so sure. You don't know Katherine!"

Gilbert could have replied, with some spirit, that he didn't know much of _anything_ anymore, and had to work to stop the automatic, accompanying frown forming. Instead he searched her face, trying to read his answers there to questions he didn't know if he had the leave to ask.

"This will all be a terrible overreaction, and Katherine will be _fine_ , I'm sure of it," Anne determined, clearly as much for herself as for him. "She wouldn't allow it to be otherwise!"

Gilbert nodded slowly and he hoped encouragingly, but was torn between offering false hope and having her prepare for the worst. Anne read it in his pained expression, and fussed momentarily with the hem of her jacket.

"I'm sure this all raises a few… _questions_ … for you," she murmured, eyes downcast.

"Maybe just a few," he kept his tone light. "But you are not compelled to offer me anything you don't want to, Anne."

He meant in relation to _answers_ , to _explanations,_ of course, but it sounded like he was referring to himself and to them together, and he cringed internally at her searching look back to him.

"I'm sorry about our celebratory tea room visit," she blushed again, as if making some sort of connection for herself.

He was too. More than she could ever possibly know.

Gilbert offered a resolute smile of reassurance. "Don't worry, Anne. With me hanging off your literary coattails there will undoubtedly be others."

"It _is_ a very good presentation, though… I'm disappointed we won't go first now."

"It is an _excellent_ presentation, and we shall go last instead and obliterate the memory of all before us – Mr Sanderson included."

Anne's melancholy smile took in his own before pausing to stare out the window; the darkness outside swallowing the specks of light along the route. The gentle rocking along the tracks as the train picked up speed and the dim, subdued, quiet cabin was strangely lulling, returning to the childhood comfort of the cradle, and they both welcomed the new, relative calm. Gilbert could do nothing but watch her, this girl he realised, with an acute ache, he knew but did not really know. Her beautiful face now was as familiar as his own; the lovely, slender perfection of her form was a source of wonder and fascination; her humour and intelligence were a challenge and a beacon. But he only knew the thoughts behind those grave grey eyes when she told him; he only saw what she wanted him to see; he had hoped to breach her walls only to find that there were more walls besides, and he wondered if he had the strength and the faith in himself he would need to persevere on this unending climb to reach her.

Anne turned back to him. "Have you ever been to Summerside?"

Gilbert shifted hopefully in his seat at the question, his hazel eyes lighting. "No, I can't say that I have."

"It's quite a bustling town. It has a very fine harbour, with stunning views out to the gulf. It certainly has its own charms… Not the genteel ones of Kingsport, though, and different again to the upstart charms of her younger cousin, Bolingbroke, I've found."

"I haven't been to Bolingbroke, either. And you are making me feel very insular, Anne, travelling to a part of my own Island I haven't experienced for myself…" he gave a good natured grimace, before searching Anne's face again, weighing the risk of his next question. "Why didn't you ever tell me you had spent time on PEI?"

Anne's furrowed brow indicated she gave this careful consideration. "Because honestly, Gilbert, I haven't _spent time_ on your Island at all. I've spent time in Summerside and in trains to and from. I hardly think that counts."

Gilbert considered this himself, his own brows drawing together.

"I do appreciate that, actually…" he hesitated, and flushed a little as her eyes looked carefully to his. "It hasn't occurred to me in this way before… but that's how it was for my Dad and I, in Alberta. People think of the Rocky Mountains and the wilderness there, but all I ever knew was the sanitorium and our little homestead on the edge of the plains…" His hazel eyes flashed a new understanding to her. "I guess it takes more than _being_ in a place to actually _know_ it."

Anne nodded, her expression softening. "That's why I love Kingsport so. I feel I'm getting to _know_ it. And that it's getting to know _me_. It's been the first place my entire life that has been _my_ choice to come to. The idea of really _knowing_ probably extends to all matter of things, actually. Circumstances … people…" she drifted on the thought and realised, too late, the hidden implication to her musings. Gilbert was quick to seize upon it.

He cleared his throat carefully. "Are you saying that in relation to _yourself_ Anne? That I… that I have been with you all this time and still not really _known_ you?"

He realised the full audacity of his question the moment he said it, in the sudden hurt that smoked in her grey eyes.

"Are _you_ saying that I've been _false_ to you, Gilbert? That just because you haven't been told every exacting detail of my life before I met you that I've _betrayed_ you in some way?"

Gilbert stilled and his eyes flew wide. How had this conversation _derailed_ so quickly?

"No, Anne… that's not what I meant, exactly…" He tried to backtrack, but realised the feeling of general disquiet refused to budge. "Although you must give me _some_ leeway if I admit to feeling completely – well – _bamboozled_ by the events of the last hour or so!"

That smoke began to spark. "Well, bamboozle away, Gilbert! I do apologise! Next time one of my friends is _gravely ill_ I will be careful to agenda it for you, so as not to offend your delicate sensibilities!"

"Well, now you're being ridiculous!" his countenance had darkened considerably. "And patently unfair! Any fellow in my position would be coming up against these concerns, Anne!"

"And what do you consider your _position_ here to _be,_ Gilbert?"

"Well, then, that's the _question,_ isn't?" he shot back more impatiently than he meant to. "Anne, I don't want to push you. _Please_ know that. I want to respect your privacy. I just feel that I'm blundering about in the dark here, and you have the match in your hand, and you _still_ don't know whether to strike it for me."

Her expression was agonised. "Gilbert… _illumination_ is sometimes…"

"Anne! I refuse to talk in metaphors with you anymore!" he scowled.

" _You_ started it, Gilbert Blythe!"

"Well, all right, but _you_ can finish it, Anne Shirley!"

Anne rolled her eyes dramatically.

"It boils down to a very simple fact, Anne," he quietened his voice after noting the warning, darting looks from several nearby passengers, but he was still clearly frustrated. "Do you _trust_ me? Do you trust me with more than trading Shakespeare quotes, much as that is entirely wonderful and diverting in itself? Or am I just here of my own stupid and misguided volition, not even trusted to… well, to even carry your _bag_!"

Anne's cheeks bore the pink of her mortification. Her own anger, which she was trying her very best to beat back down, was tempered only slightly by his almost amusing flash of pubescent petulance.

"I pray in _every_ way that Katherine is much recovered by the time we get there," Anne glowered admirably. "Because I cannot _wait_ for you to come up against _her,_ Gilbert Blythe!"

Gilbert's lips formed a thin line of annoyance.

 _Anne_ opened her mouth to give another quick rejoinder, but closed it just as swiftly. Her eyes burned in her face which was now flushed with the heat of their unexpected exchange. Her passionate response was altogether too disconcerting for him just now, in the close confines of the carriage.

"I'll see if there's any tea being served to bring back before they close the dining carriage," he offered in a tone of affronted calm, rising abruptly. "I'll make sure they save some extra sugar for _yours_ , Miss Shirley."

He turned with a mocking arch of his brow, but not before being treated to the unexpected satisfaction of seeing Anne's jaw drop in indignation.

Gilbert stalked out of the carriage and right through to the dining carriage, just making it in time for last orders. He gave and paid for his request and then sought refuge on the bridge connecting the carriages, holding onto the railing as the train careered in the darkness, welcoming the sharp, cold air as it blasted some sense into him.

 _What_ had he just done back there? He adored this girl beyond measure; this girl who was beautiful and brave and brilliant. He wanted to take her in his arms even as she spat fire at him just now. He wanted to be her noble hero in this endeavour but was just proving himself to have been as base and coarse and clueless and any of Shakespeare's fools. And she was right. He _hated_ not knowing these things about her.

 _Why_ did he hate it? He let out a long breath into the night. Before he could investigate his feelings any further – let alone _hers_ – there was an impatient knock on the window; his order was ready.

* * *

Gilbert returned, determined to walk a fine line between courteously contrite and last gasp grovelling, only to find Anne was nowhere to be seen. Gilbert halted in bewilderment. He absolutely had the right carriage – even if he had misjudged the number of carriages, here was sleeping evidence of those passengers he recognised, but he stood looking down, incredulous, at their empty seats. Their bags and coats were gone and Anne along with them.

His mind spun into a quick and disturbing freefall. She had been harassed by some stranger in his absence and was forced to flee. Someone reprobate had snatched their bags and she had taken off in dangerous pursuit. She had stormed off herself in her anger and couldn't find her way back. Or, worse of all, she had finished with him and had left him forever.

He held onto the little tray with their cups stupidly, only just resisting the urge to fling it to the ground and run about shouting her name. He looked around wildly, through the window and into the partition to the next carriage, which housed some private compartments. And then he saw that wonderfully reassuring flash of red; Anne poking her head out of a doorway, straining to have him see her, beckoning him with her hand and her excited expression.

Gilbert moved very swiftly now, through the carriage and to the next one.

"Anne! You put the fear of God into me then!" that aforementioned fear was making his words unintentionally ragged.

"Here, Gilbert!" she had the door to a private compartment opened, and she was tugging on his sleeve trying to get him inside.

"Anne, what are you doing?" he hissed. "These are the private compartments! We shouldn't be back here!"

"Be quiet and get _in,_ Gilbert, before anyone sees you!" She pushed at his strong, defined back, which would have indeed been an immovable object despite her irresistible – in every way – force, but for the tray he was still juggling, upsetting his balance, and she was able to push him before her, closing the door behind them and locking it with a flourish.

"There," Anne smiled, almost dusting her hands together in job-well-done fashion, her eyes brightened by her exertions and her voice resonating loudly in the hush of the compartment, which even blocked the rattle of the train to something approaching a low hum.

Indeed he couldn't hear much of anything above the blood thundering in his ears.

"Anne!" he looked aghast at her and then around them to the empty compartment. "Are you out of your _mind_? We can't be _here_ … _alone_ … _together!"_

 _He_ might as well be the one in maidenly panic at these proceedings, watching as she looked up to him with a wry glint.

"Who's to see us? And at any rate, you're missing your apron, Mr Blythe," she smiled knowingly, and took the tray from his unresisting hands.

Caught offguard, he smiled in surprise at her reference to his _Lambs_ induction get up.

"I thought you didn't know about that. Wasn't that the time when you weren't speaking to me and wished you could hack me into little pieces?"

Her smile grew wide and she gave a delicious arch of her brow. All he could do was take a long and rather uneven breath in response.

"Anne. We _can't_ be in here!" he repeated, not quite as firmly as before.

"Gilbert, I _trust_ you."

Gilbert felt his eyes were out on stalks. "Anne, let me assure you, this was _not_ the kind of _trust_ I was referring to!"

She colored in understanding, but her tone held firm. "Isn't it? Aren't they really one and the same when it comes to it? I trust you with the safety of my person absolutely, without compunction. Perhaps it's time I really did trust you with some of my stories, too."

Her look was unaccountably tender, and his heart hammered so loudly it was its own percussion section.

Gilbert thought he would perhaps awaken now, to find himself cast back to his desk in his dorm room, and it really was Charlie at the door, perhaps to inform him he was leaving Redmond for the Foreign Legion. For nothing could be as _wondrous strange_ * as these words from her under these circumstances.

Gilbert swallowed hard. "Anne…"

She motioned him to come and sit, along the padded bench seat, their bags and coats lying on the other opposite, with the tray set on the low table in the middle. He was fleetingly grateful it was at least not a sleeping compartment.

"How did you get in here?"

"I was busily plotting your downfall by way of sharp, cutting retort upon your return…" she handed him his now lukewarm tea with an utterly disarming smile. "I was very aggrieved to find I couldn't come up with any. I came to thinking that you were right. And that you deserved better."

He flushed at this. "Anne, I behaved very poorly just before. I _don't_ deserve better."

There was that look from her again, and it silenced him, not because he didn't have further objections, but because he stared into her eyes and his brain forgot to function.

"So… I was waiting and the conductor was coming to check tickets… he saw I was alone and he was concerned. Before I could disavow him of his presumption he was whisking me back here and opening up one of the empty compartments for me – saying he would look the other way and I could stay here, uninterrupted, till we reach Summerside. He'll even give a warning knock ten minutes before we arrive."

She gave a delighted grin that squeezed at his insides.

"Anne, I think you're forgetting that he gave _you_ permission to stay here, to ensure your safety and safeguard your reputation. If he finds me happily camped out too he'll take that as an immediate and _understandable_ affront to all his efforts."

"Gilbert, he _doesn't know_ about you! Didn't he check your ticket further up the train?"

"Well, yes… he caught me in the dining carriage."

"So there, then! All's well."

Whether it would _end_ so he was unsure, but he had to admit the cosier, infinitely more private confines of the compartment were as appealing as the new light to her eyes and smile.

"Anne…" he offered up his very last line of defence. "I wouldn't want you to appear compromised in any way."

Anne's smile was terribly bemused.

"As opposed to leaving Redmond together under cover of darkness earlier?"

Gilbert groaned with such agonised gusto it made them both laugh.

"Don't remind me! Good 'ol Mr Fitz. He at least might be on my side at the trial."

Their laughter drifted towards a quiet chuckle, before ending altogether on a current of communion and calm.

They sipped their tea. It was a surreal echo to even earlier that day, and a mocking reminder of what they could have had tomorrow. But despite the possible heartache at the end of their journey, he wouldn't exchange this moment for anything.

* * *

 _ **Summerside Home for Girls**_

 _ **September 1876**_

 _Katherine Brooke watched with interest as the slight, still figure made her way towards her, hands clasped in the way the girls were encouraged; head down respectfully. No wonder she hadn't much noticed her, as this girl bore little resemblance to the description her sometime older friend Margaret Cadbury had made of her. 'Talks incessantly…. disturbingly vivid imagination… prone to flights of fancy… excitable nature fed by luridly adult vocabulary… flashes of occasional temper…' and the addendum, which perhaps had been better borne out; 'dreadful incident… stuffing knocked out of her… tremendous potential needing to be harnessed…'_

" _You may leave us a while, Miss Baker," Katherine nodded to the older girl who had duly returned with her cargo, and gratefully scuttled off, whilst exacting amber eyes were turned back to the new arrival._

" _Anne Shirley, I am Katherine Brooke. "_

 _The girl dropped a small, neat curtsy._

" _Indeed, Ma'am. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."_

" _I believe we have long bypassed that stage, Anne Shirley, since you have been in my_ acquaintance _these past three weeks. You have been sent to us on the strength of the personal recommendation of my friend Mrs Cadbury. What have you to say for yourself?"_

" _I am very grateful to Mrs Cadbury and to the administration of Summerside Home for Girls for taking me on, Miss Brooke, and will do my utmost to uphold the ideals set before me and to make myself worthy of the opportunities presented to me."_

 _Katherine rolled her eyes internally at the rehearsed platitudes. Well, this one could certainly string a sentence together when she had a desire to._

" _How old are you, Anne Shirley?"_

" _I am eleven and a half, Miss Brooke."_

" _And what of your schooling, up until now?"_

" _There has been little of it to speak of. It has been haphazard and underwhelming, Miss Brooke."_

 _Katherine pursed her lips together lest she bark out a surprised grunt of something approaching a laugh, which may have caused the quaking Miss Baker, if she was still with them, to swoon in shock._

" _Has it indeed, Anne Shirley. Well, that would seem to account for the astonishing affront of your spelling here," she indicated to the exercise book before her._

" _Yes, Miss Brooke," the answer was not quite so automatic now, and the two growing spots on those pale cheeks attested to as much._

" _Are these all your own opinions, written in your own hand, Anne Shirley?"_

" _Yes, Miss Brooke."_

" _I wonder then, when you were so clearly instructed to write an analysis of Mr Tennyson's 'The May Queen' as found in your reader, you instead give us a lengthy and unnecessary exploration of his 'The Lady of Shalott.'_

" _I found the works comparable on a certain level, Miss Brooke, but I find that 'The Lady of Shalott' gives so much more scope for the imagination."_

" _This has nothing to do with imagination, Anne Shirley, but rather more to do with your wilful disregard for instructions. 'The May Queen' is the prescribed poem. I cannot pass you on this section of your reader until you have addressed it. We may as well do that now."_

" _Certainly, as you say, Miss Brooke."_

 _Katherine Brooke's eyes narrowed. That response was rather more mulish, and much more in keeping with Margaret Cadbury's opinion._

" _Yes, I do say, Anne Shirley, and I trust you will not forget it. I take it you are familiar with the literary techniques employed in 'The May Queen'?"_

" _Yes, Miss Brooke, and although I admire them and greatly admire Mr Tennyson, I… I cannot admire the poem itself."_

 _Katherine Brooke raised one of her extraordinary brows. "Firstly, Anne Shirley, I am sure England and Ireland's Poet Laureate these last twenty years greatly appreciates your admiration for his undertakings. Secondly, I asked not your personal opinion of the poem, but a comment on matters of form and style."_

" _Well yes, Miss Brooke, but Mr Tennyson's form and style are only ways in which he painfully accentuates the coming death of little Alice."_

Painfully accentuates _indeed. The girl had a better vocabulary – and certainly a better grasp of things – than the erstwhile Miss Baker._

" _How so, Anne Shirley?" Katherine pressed._

 _Anne fought a little war with herself. She had been resolutely determined to move around as quietly and unobtrusively as possible since her arrival at Summerside. For the first time in her life she had not immediately attracted attention – she looked the same as all the other girls, with her uniform and cap, the latter shielding the one thing people always noticed about her. There had been a certain relief in conforming her personality to this new environment; quiet days spent in quiet pursuits. It only required use of a quarter of her brain and nothing of her heart, which was only a shell left remaining anyway, or a lonely one-handed drummer without the one it had beat in time with._

 _It had not been easy, submerging herself in this way, but rather she learn to breathe better underwater or else drown completely._

 _Anne swum reluctantly to the surface; she eyed the shore._

" _Mr Tennyson sets up little Alice as a vain and uncaring creature, Miss Brooke – she is obsessed with her role and status as the May Queen; she thinks herself better than the other girls and that she looks finer than they. The rhyme and repetition of the last line of each stanza - 'For I'm to be Queen 'o the May, mother, I'm to be Queen 'o the May' is like a taunt she gives over and over, like a boast. She is hateful to the boy, Robin, who loves her, and she gives him 'sharp looks' and the fright of his life thinking she is a ghost running past, but she…" at this Anne sidled over to the table to better peruse the reader, "she even says 'they call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say'. And in the next stanza she continues 'They say his heart is breaking, mother – but what is that to me?' Her actions towards him are selfish and cruel, but she is convinced it doesn't matter – that_ he _doesn't matter - and that other boys will show interest in her anyway. The poet almost doesn't want us to like her, and if we don't like her how can we care for her Fate? It seems a contradiction. Meanwhile the ballad is full of the images as if foretelling her death – Alice is in her white May Queen dress and even believes Robin thinks her a ghost… the valley she mentions seems to me like 'the valley of the shadow of death', like the psalm **… and Alice even hints about 'eternal sleep' when she says earlier 'I sleep so sound at night, mother, that I shall never wake.' And then, she takes another full half of the poem to actually die… over and over again about it being the last New Year she'll ever see, and the 'frost on the pane', and her 'mouldering grave'… and its horrible, and I hate it!" ***_

 _Anne dashed at the tear on her cheek, her face flushed, her words come as a breathless torrent, a great gush, as if indeed she had to get them out before being swamped again by the wave coming for her. She had never spoken about a poem or story like this, ever; she had never had the opportunity to do so, and felt fearful of giving such opinions even as she fought the exhilaration of releasing them and of them being heard._

 _Katherine Brooke blinked several times, feeling indeed as if she had been pummelled by a mighty wave. She was not one for overreaction and had a horror of hyperbole, but she knew she had just witnessed an extraordinarily adept interpretation, untutored and overemotional though it was, from a girl of eleven that was the equal to anything given up by her Queen's Academy candidates over at the High School._

" _Well, Anne Shirley, for someone who didn't like the work you have rather a lot to say about it. 'The Lady of Shalott' deals with the death of the female protagonist too – why is that death so very preferable to you in comparison?"_

 _Anne started and opened her mouth in surprise. Her grey, teary eyes blinked back the moisture in them. She felt something in her stir, shift, change. She felt the waves crashing around her beginning to subside. She felt a tiny hope within herself; a flame; a flicker._

" _Because, Miss Brooke…" Anne stammered, "because The Lady is caught in a curse, and she knows of the curse, and she breaks free of it anyway. And she knows she will die but she is made brave by it and becomes heroic – she is even mourned by Lancelot; instead of Alice the May Queen, who is punished for being 'wild and wayward'_ *** _by her own death."_

" _Mmm…" Katherine now raised two eyebrows in a reaction that managed to be both bemused and a little derisive. "I see how your preferences are held close to you, Anne Shirley. You'll need to guard against that in the future and learn to be much more even handed in your appraisal."_

 _Anne's eyes were wide. "Yes, Miss Brooke."_

" _It was a very good analysis, Anne Shirley, if slightly overwrought. I am happy to pass you on it."_

 _Anne paused for an incredulous moment. "Thank you, Miss Brooke."_

" _And the word is 'foreshadows'; Mr Tennyson tells beforehand of the death of the girl with her white dress and such by 'foreshadowing' it. A useful term. I have noted it here."_

 _Anne was too stunned now to respond except in words of few syllables._

" _Thank you, Miss Brooke."_

" _I will continue to instruct your progress in English and humanities. You must work on your spelling, and according to others, most definitely on your geometry. Here is a copy of the Fifth Reader. You may become familiar with it; I doubt you'll have need of the Fourth Reader for very much longer."_

 _Anne's somewhat shaking fingers reached out for the reader; it might have been an exchange, but it felt like a blessing._

" _Th…thank you, most sincerely, Miss Brooke."_

" _Very well then, Anne Shirley," Katherine gave a curt nod of her head. "I will see you on Wednesday."_

 _Anne lingered momentarily, her eyes newly bright and wondering. She clutched her exercise book and the reader to her chest, bobbed a curtsy and made her way out. As she passed the older girl who had summoned her she raised her bowed head high, her chin ever so slightly tilted._

 _Katherine watched her and noted the action. It reminded her of another girl of long ago; she of dark hair and dark wayward brows and strange amber eyes. However, Katherine was mindful of the effect even a small, tight, begrudging smile from her might have on hapless Miss Baker, and adjusted her demeanour accordingly._

* * *

Anne had thought herself bold and confident, buoyed by the unexpected gift of the private compartment, but now her courage faltered, ebbing away even as they drained the last of the tea and had nothing else to occupy them.

Gilbert had grown quiet too, and she had become very aware of him close to her on the bench seat, trying not to notice his long fingers as he drummed them on his knee. She wanted to begin but still didn't quite know how. And then the train lurched unexpectedly, navigating the corner inexpertly, and it sent Anne crashing as a wave into his arms, and propelled the tray on the table and Gilbert's bag on the opposite seat to beach themselves on the floor in the swell.

Her breathless apology as she stared up into his eyes with his steadying arms around her stirred feelings that had absolutely no place in the private compartment of a train as the midnight hour approached. They leapt away from one another as scalded cats and busied themselves with the damage; Anne lunged after runaway teacups and the upended tray; Gilbert rescued his bag and the various contents that had slipped out.

Anne turned to see him shove back a very weighty textbook; it was hardly her own usual reading material but she could discern the cover well enough, and the question in her eyes startled him when he looked at her, and she saw him blush as fiercely as she had ever seen him.

"I hope you don't sleep with _that_ one under your pillow now…" she tried to joke. "You'd throw your neck out!"

 _Would that you knew exactly_ what _I sleep with under my pillow, Miss Shirley._

Gilbert tried to smile but it was a rather poor, half hearted imitation of one.

"You must think me _incredibly_ presumptuous…" he murmured, shaking his head disparagingly.

"Of course not. I think it's incredibly… _thoughtful_ of you…" she tried to break through the new lump in her throat. "I just hope we won't have to consult it."

"It was idiotic…" he persisted, sitting back in his seat with an embarrassed thump.

Anne righted the tea things and left them all on the tray by the door. She came around to sit herself beside him.

"When was it?" she asked curiously. "When you wanted to become a doctor?"

"Anne, I think we've long established that the very notion is far off and ridiculous…"

"Gilbert," she chastised gently in return, "I think we have _also_ established that you can give yourself _permission to dream…_ " she fed his words back to him.

He looked to her searchingly.

 _Would that you knew exactly_ what _I dream, Miss Shirley._

He turned back to contemplate the floor, pausing for a moment, thinking that _trust_ was rather a two-way street. He was asking an awful lot of Anne and giving very little in return. He hadn't discussed any of his future ambitions with anyone except for family… his parents and Uncle Dave… and _her._ The thought was rather startling; he realised he grouped her with them.

"I guess…" Gilbert began, "that Dad's illness and our time in Alberta made a very big impression, and still resonates, even now. And I have a great Uncle in Glen St Mary, which is a coastal town on the Island overlooking Four Winds Harbour. He has the medical practice there, and I've spent part of every summer for the past few years following him around like an adoring and _very_ unworthy puppy. But I remember…" he suddenly grinned, "that I did always like to know how things worked as a boy, but my interest wasn't so much mechanical as _anatomical._ How the human body worked… what it did and why… its strengths and its vulnerabilities… Then, during my two years of teaching, which I enjoyed perfectly well, mind… I was encouraging students in _their_ ambitions but not really even thinking of my own. And then it came to me… _medicine."_ He paused mid reflection. _"_ Did you know that Keats trained as a doctor?"

Anne had been listening avidly, and laughed at his unexpected question.

"Really?"

"He was very skilled, apparently, and achieved his apothecary's licence and everything, which meant he could practice as an apothecary, physician and surgeon. But he turned his back on it, even though he would have made him a very comfortable living, and lack of money was a difficulty all his life. It brings up quite the dilemma, actually."

"Science versus Art?" she surmised.

Gilbert nodded eagerly. "A critic once said of him ' _It is a better and a wiser thing to be a starved apothecary than a starved poet'."_ ****

"That's rather awful!"

"Indeed, very harsh. I respect that his true passion lay in literature, and he was brave enough to follow that decision, in the face of notable opposition from his family and professional mentors. In truth he could have lived his doing good, noble work; comfortable, respected - and forgotten."

"Instead he died a penniless poet at twenty five," Anne completed the thought, 'but will be remembered forever."

Gilbert sighed. _"Exactly."_

"He could have saved countless lives…"

"But we'd have no _Ode to a Nightingale…."_

Anne made an aggrieved face. "I don't think I could live without _Nightingale._ Or _Ode to Autumn._ Or _Bright Star._ "

Gilbert nodded. "Keats wanted to be remembered. He worried that he didn't leave his mark – but he absolutely did. And I guess I'm attracted to medicine because I want to leave _my_ mark, in a different way... "The idea of _fight(ing) disease and pain and ignorance… which are all members of one another. I want to do my share of honest, real work in the world, Anne… add a little to the sum of knowledge that all good men have been accumulating since it began. The folks who lived before me have done so much for me that I want to show my gratitude by doing something for the folks who will live after me…"_ *****

He looked back at Anne and shrugged his shoulders, a new hint of color to his cheeks.

"I am aware that last bit sounds _unbelievably_ pompous!" he gave a smile, rolling his eyes.

Anne surveyed Gilbert for several moments, her expression unfathomable.

"I think…" she finally offered, with a hint of huskiness which caused his ears to tinge red, "that you are in danger of becoming an extremely good and decent man, Gilbert Blythe."

He smiled slowly at the tremor of a tease in her tone, even as her eyes spoke to him with an earnestness that was altogether too suited to the private compartment of a train as the midnight hour approached.

"Well, then…" he met her eyes and his own voice deepened, and he fought the urge to kiss her with everything in him. "I won't tell anybody if you don't."

* * *

 _ **Summerside Home for Girls**_

 _ **March 1878**_

 _Anne sat in the chair in the corner in disgrace, feeling that she was the most pitiful creature in all the world, her despairing misery only marginally assuaged by the sight and sound of the whey faced, sobbing girl in the corner opposite. The girl didn't even dare to glimpse at Anne herself, who had proven, thought the girl and manifold witnesses, to be a frightful red-haired hellion, with a temper to match her rarely seen tresses, and an unfortunate and (heretofore unsuspected) startlingly accurate aim when holding a heavy book._

 _Katherine Brooke swept in with a majestic fury, her dark eyebrows hunkered over her amber eyes made blistering by her anger, her lips tight and her expression darkly forbidding. A mere look at the girl in the other corner caused a fresh bout of quivering tears; Anne, with all the pious affront of the not quite falsely accused but of the definitely wretchedly wronged, merely met Miss Brooke's eyes, though her gaze was not quite as unwavering as she may have hoped for._

" _This is a most appalling set of circumstances!" Katherine hissed. "Fighting!" she glared at Anne, "and thievery!" she darted another scathing glance at Anne's near hysterical nemesis. "Perhaps in the interests of clarity some explanation is forthcoming?"_

" _She grabbed and attacked me!" Sadie Mayhew, never shy let alone retiring at the best of times, now began in her own hasty defence. "She howled at me! She clobbered me on the head with a book!"_

" _And before we investigate this incredible incident, might you explain, Sadie Mayhew, how Anne Shirley here may have come to such terrible and violent behaviour?"_

" _I believe it to be inherent in her very nature, Miss Brooke," came haughty reply._

 _Anne wisely made no interjection; Katherine Brooke's reaction showed she was rather unimpressed enough for the both of them._

" _A very shaky defence indeed, Sadie Mayhew, though I acknowledge your attempt to explore your vocabulary."_

 _Sadie smiled through her tears in her misguided pride, which was rather the wrong course of action. Katherine Brooke turned with the strike of a cobra._

" _I find nothing amusing about this whatsoever, Miss Mayhew! May I explain a few things. Firstly, I find your smug attitude generally deplorable and personally offensive, no more so than in this particular instance. You won't be fit to be kitchen maid in some third rate tearoom if this continues. Secondly, I have been engaged as tutor to guide and assist the young ladies of this establishment – and I include you in that group based on the loosest possible definition – and to instead have to oversee you writing lines as punishment for this earlier scandal is an insulting waste of my time and expertise. And thirdly, your wanton disregard for the possessions of others – in this case Anne Shirley's – demonstrates a lack of moral fibre that I find both puzzling and disappointing. Be certain that I have my eye on you now, Sadie Mayhew, and I had much better like what I see in the future."_

 _Katherine Brooke's diatribe had the desired effect and then some; the girl went off wailing pathetically in search of the materials for her lines._

 _Katherine turned slowly back to Anne, who had only the most tenuous grip on her own composure._

"Puzzling _and_ disappointing _indeed, Anne Shirley."_

 _Anne buried her face in her hands. "I'm so very sorry, Miss Katherine!"_

" _Anne! What on earth possessed you?"_

" _I was only looking at my wooden figures, Miss Katherine - as unobtrusively as I could. I have tried to be mindful of your advice to peruse them more sparingly, as a special treat or reward… I thought… I thought that_ this _day would be an appropriate one…" Anne tried with everything in her not to dissolve into hot, angry, bitter tears, for Katherine had an abhorrence of excesses of emotion, and Anne had tested her on that score many times already._

" _And then Sadie snatched them from me! She would not give them back, though I cajoled and then even threatened her. She might have dropped and broken them – I was terrified she would, or fling them somewhere! So I grabbed at her and shouted, and then the book was by my bed and I_ did _clunk her on the head with it to stop her, and what's more I'd do it again!"_

 _Katherine's look had shifted from angry to disapproving, but Anne knew that was far worse._

" _Anne Shirley! You and that boy!_ Honestly! _"_

" _Oh, Miss Katherine… I am sorry… but they are all I have of him…" The tears_ did _arrive now, silent and stealthy, dashed away as soon as they were formed._

 _Katherine Brooke could have argued that some wooden figurines were the least of the problem here – that this long ago comrade, this lone friend, still loomed too large in her consciousness, nearly two years later, and there were upwards of three exercise books full of fevered writings and scribblings and undoubtedly tormented poetry to prove it. When Katherine had first stumbled upon them she was both horrified and fascinated by the lurid adventures they portrayed, of those wooden figures come to life; weaving in and out of high adventure and low humour, written in the style of the authors from which Anne had taken inspiration, with an uncanny ear and not inconsiderable skill. So there had been touches of Swift and Dumas, of Grimm's Tales and Tennyson, and a decidedly uncomfortable and appropriately Dickensian interlude, which seemed to consist of ways in which the blonde boy and the red haired girl devised a series of punishments and penance for a tall, dark haired, sallow-faced villain._

 _Katherine now almost_ did _sigh in despair, and was not at all pleased with the knowledge of it._

" _He would be fourteen or fifteen now…" Anne Shirley mused, her face red and tearstained, but her grey eyes hopeful. "I shall be able to write to him in a few more years…"_

" _And what exactly would you_ say _, Anne Shirley?" Katherine's disappointment in her made her scathing. "That you have made a fine future for yourself as some bottle washer in a kitchen?"_

"No _, Miss Katherine… I thought… that is, the idea… of me being a teacher like yourself someday…"_

" _And do you think they will want me to continue giving such exacting instruction to someone who proves herself unable – and not for the first time – to control her temper and her rash reactions? That this wayward creature flying in the face of all the teachings here in the Home would still be the beneficiary of their benediction? And what of_ me _in all this, Anne Shirley, if you have a thought for anyone but yourself at all? It is a very convenient arrangement for myself, to come and do extra work, and I have ensured I am paid handsomely for it. But if the benefactors of the Home find they are not financing the futures of respectable young ladies, but instead nurturing a veritable nest of vipers, you can be assured you will never see me again. Let alone any hope of a decent career before a blackboard!"_

 _Katherine Brooke's amber eyes burned a hole right through her. Anne gulped, and a new panic mingled with an old dread._

" _Miss Katherine… they wouldn't withdraw their support, would they? I couldn't bear it if I was … if I ended up being no better than…" Anne's face was white, and she couldn't even finish the horror of the sentence._

" _Well then, Anne, perhaps you can be mindful of that thought next time you are tempted to resort to physical violence."_

" _Yes, Miss Katherine," Anne responded, in as quivering a fashion as anything Sadie had just offered._

" _You must apply yourself resolutely and wholeheartedly. You must make every effort. I will not abide half measures."_

" _No, of course, Miss Katherine."_

 _Katherine's eyebrows furrowed fearsomely._

" _And no more stories."_

 _The request that was not a request hung in the air. Anne took a shuddering breath on it. She would need to pack the stories away… she would need to pack_ him _away. She would need to fold him up as a letter, one of the countless letters to him she could not write, and she would need to fold it and fold it again, small, so very small as to be a speck, to be tucked away, safe and out of sight._

 _Anne's response was slow and sorrowful._

" _Yes, Miss Katherine."_

 _Katherine accepted this with her characteristic firm nod, and then she pursed her lips._

" _Writing lines. What a way to mark one's birthday, Anne Shirley."_

 _Anne had decided the day couldn't be any sadder, and gave in to her glum musings._

" _I doubt that thirteen will be any more auspicious than twelve was," she murmured with the dire air of one approaching the scaffold._

" _You are probably right," Katherine responded in that way of hers; the lips twisted in their fight against a smile._

 _Anne sighed her own loud and grievous sigh of despair._

 _Katherine Brooke rolled her eyes not quite so inwardly and fished around in her satchel for a novel, holding it out to Anne without ceremony._

" _Here, then," she offered gruffly. "I am sure you will find_ her _to be one of your 'kindred spirits'; she was an orphan with a terrible temper, too."_

 _Anne accepted the book, already looking much loved, and stared at the cover._

" _Miss Bronte's 'Jane Eyre'" she breathed._

" _It is my own copy, but I am making it yours. Goodness knows you have more need of her now than I do, Anne Shirley."_

 _Anne's eyes were brimming anew as she looked back up, and Katherine immediately frowned and began to make unnecessary adjustments to the room in preparation for her Wednesday class._

" _Thank you, Miss Katherine," Anne whispered, too moved to draw upon the effusive sentiments that flooded her._

" _Well, then," Katherine was typically terse. "I would start on those lines if I were you, lest you turn on the waterworks and blot all the ink entirely."_

* * *

"So, Anne," Gilbert had removed himself to the comparative safety of further along the bench seat, ostensibly to stretch his long legs and safeguard their bags from further excitement but really just in highly transparent and possibly ineffectual attempt to put some physical distance between them, removing the resultant temptation alongside it. "Perhaps you'd best tell me about Miss Katherine Brooke, considering your comments about her have me somewhat fearful - and by _fearful_ I mean not unlike a Christian in the Colosseum, waiting for the lions to come out."

"A lamb to the slaughter?"

"That imagery is even more effective," he grinned, "and even less helpful."

"I thought you were finished with the use of metaphors, Mr Blythe?"

"I rescind my former comments entirely," he replied. "I think I may well need the comfort of a metaphor or two."

Gilbert watched as she smiled and then grew serious, the atmosphere in the compartment changing in an instant, and those fingers, he noted with a lump to his throat, had taken to fiddling again.

"Anne…" he reached over to cover her hand with his. "If you think you can trust me, then please, help me to _earn_ it. Let me in, even just a little."

There was a very long pause as he held his breath for her answer, and she watched her hand encased in his. He saw the shimmer of tears on her downcast lashes.

"If I tell you about Katherine then it's like I am telling you everything. I suddenly don't know if I'm ready for that, Gilbert – even for _you_."

He waited, and clutched her hand tighter.

"Well, only you yourself can decide that, Anne."

She finally, _finally,_ raised her bowed head, to meet his eyes. The dreadful shadows he saw in her own, that she was finally allowing him to see… the depthless pools of uncertainty and even fear, threatened to unman him entirely. _What had happened to her to make her look so at the thought of sharing some of herself?_

Anne opened her mouth as if to speak, and closed it again.

Gilbert, with an agonised look at her, withdrew his hand, though instead of sliding back again, he moved closer beside her. He didn't want to crowd her, but something in him wanted to impart his support of her, in the only way he could think of in this moment.

Anne gave a soft intake of breath, adjusting her own position slightly to accommodate him. His sleeve brushed hers, his iron shoulder and bicep fighting her for space; his thigh resting firmly against her own. She closed her eyes momentarily at the comforting bulk of him; the heat of his body chasing away the cold she had felt since her eyes had first scanned that telegram.

"Anne," his voice was a little rough, and his breath brushed her cheek. "Forget what you have said, and what I have said, and let us just sit here together. I am just going to sit here patiently and what's more I will attempt to _silently_. I have nowhere to go but to be here, sitting beside you. If you want to speak, please speak. If you want to rest, please rest. If you want to quote Shakespeare, we'll quote Shakespeare, and never mind what I said before, I will _always_ find it in every way wonderful and diverting with you."

Anne smiled gratefully up at him, staring into the eyes that stared so kindly back to her.

"Thank you, Gilbert."

"You're welcome, Anne," he answered on a breath.

What Anne really wanted to do was something barely within the bounds, such as rest her weary head upon his shoulder. Gilbert felt solid and real as they headed towards the unknown and intangible. He was an anchor in a deep, dark, silent, churning sea. She had learned to fight the current at times and to let it take her during others, but it had been a long, long time since she had anyone helping to keep her afloat; to hold her and keep swimming for her when her own arms had grown so tired.

Anne swallowed with difficulty. _Sink or swim? Resist or accept? Guard or trust?_

"I came to Summerside when I was eleven…" Anne began so quietly she could barely be heard above the engine and the lull of the train over railway tracks. "I had been sent over from the orphanage in Hopetown, in Nova Scotia. I met Katherine at Summerside. She was a teacher at the High School who worked a few sessions a week there, at the Home. The Summerside Home for Girls, that is."

There was a long, long pause, during which Gilbert thought that might be all he was to know. _There was a Hopetown as well?_ The thought was despairing. After a moment he tested the waters.

"I thought you grew up in Bolingbroke?" he offered as gently as he could.

"I was _born_ in Bolingbroke. When my parents died I was still a very young baby, and I guess I was lucky to be taken in by my parents' former charlady, Mrs Thomas, who had four children of her own and hadn't quite weaned the youngest. She nursed me until I was old enough to feed on my own, and then her husband died, and she couldn't afford me, so she left me at the orphanage." *

Gilbert's eyes widened, but he didn't dare move a muscle, and thought he might forego breathing as well if it was too distracting.

Anne sighed deeply, but it was a sigh of tiredness, he thought, and not of distress.

"I was at the orphanage until I was eight, and then I was fostered out to a Mrs Harrison. She lived up the river from Marysville _"in a little clearing among the stumps. It was a very lonesome place. I'm sure I could never have lived there if I hadn't an imagination. Mr Hammond worked a little saw-mill up there, and Mrs Hammond had eight children. She had twins three times…"_ ****** Anne paused, to perhaps grimace at the memory of all those little mouths she undoubtedly helped to feed. "She was not … that is, Mrs Hammond was not… not what you would call a sympathetic soul… definitely _not_ a _kindred spirit.._ Her husband died, and she had to divide up her children amongst her relatives. She certainly didn't want to hold on to _me_. And so then when I was eleven I came back to the orphanage. I was there for… for… a little while, before being sent across to the Island, to Summerside, to the Home for Girls."

Gilbert tried very hard to contain his mounting horror. He wanted to move to take her in his arms and embrace all the hurts away… the loneliness and confusion and helplessness just floating beneath the surface, a buoy bobbing on the water… He stretched out his long fingers to grasp it, but it moved away from him with the waves, just out of reach.

Instead, he went to grasp her hand, his fingers lacing with hers.

"I am _so_ sorry, Anne _… You were just a wee thing…"_ he gave her long ago line back to her, inclining his head towards her, thinking that his voice might break on the words.

Anne chuckled softly in remembrance, and began to slump down in her seat, even closer towards him. If he scrunched down himself, he thought, he could meet her halfway, and ….

 _Yes._ He felt her head drift towards his left shoulder, and it settled itself there.

His throat closed over, thinking his jacket would smell of lilies again now.

For the moment Gilbert tried to process thoughts of a young red headed girl, eyes wide and grey, shunted all about two provinces. Shunted about to uncaring foster folk or indifferent institutions. Whilst he, by that stage, was back in Avonlea, flirting with the girls. He felt the weight of Anne's head on his shoulder even as he staggered under the new weight of her admissions.

"You ask about Katherine…" Anne continued after a time, and though he couldn't see her face he could feel her smile. "And it's like asking me to describe the weather, or the sky, or the sea. There are things that are changeable and there are things that are constant. There are things that were always there but I did not notice them about her until later, and there are things I perhaps discovered, new, as if she wasn't aware of them either… She started off as a teacher; often she was a martinet; she became a mentor, and along the line she became my friend. I owe her so much, Gilbert. I owe her my education and my career. I owe her any faith I have in my own abilities. I would not be at Redmond, I would not be sitting on this train with you trying to get to her now, if not _for_ her…"

Anne shuddered into a sob, stifling it in his sleeve, and he turned his body into her to try to absorb the naked pain of it. Gilbert's own eyes burned at the emotion in her voice. Outside of his family and his fondness for his friends, he wondered if he had ever felt so about anyone. And realised, of course, he did, and she was sitting next to him.

He struggled to keep her afloat amongst her growing misery.

"Did you like Summerside? The Girls' Home?" he asked after a moment, in his desperation, knowing the question was stupid and blundering, and would probably bring on a fresh wave of tears. Instead, amazingly, Anne gave something that may have been a snort and tried hard to be a short little laugh.

"I didn't _dislike_ it…" Anne's tone had become a little wry. She sat up a little and brushed at her tears; he had to fight himself not to insist on helping with the process.

"I felt that the Home was a little like _Lowood_ , actually, though not as draughty and with better food." Anne turned to give a watery smile at him, as if having made a joke, and he looked at her blankly.

"Oh, yes, well, forgive me, that is a _Jane Eyre_ reference. I forgot that you are still bulwarking yourself against the Brontes!"

She had recovered enough to give him an eyeroll, albeit with reddened eyes, and he felt his lips tug in relief.

"Well, Anne, hysterics on the moors and all..." his hazel eyes crinkled at the corners, and his tone continued the tease, to try to drag her away from the undertow. "Shakespeare is one thing, but I just can't come at that. I am _trying_ to convince everyone I am a rational man of science, you know. I even brought the book along to prove it."

She smiled at him in that way of hers; the one where he usually then forgot what his last sentence was.

"Well, you'd be surprised by _Jane Eyre._ There's not too many moors to moan about but there _is_ a very appropriately gothic mansion."

"See, though, that's not really helping…" he grinned shamelessly, and loved to see some of the light come back to her face.

"Be careful, Mr Blythe! This is my favourite book in all the world we are talking about!"

He groaned excessively, and she shook her head at him in admonishment.

"Fine, then, Gilbert! What's _your_ favourite book? Since _obviously_ we won't be doubling up here as on the sonnets."

He frowned in thought, his lips still smiling.

"I don't actually have one."

She paused, astonished.

"You don't _have_ one? The man who knows Shakespeare and Dickens and Keats and is coming in a respectable second in his Great English Literature course?"

Gilbert gave her a mock glare at the dig, before shrugging his shoulders sheepishly.

"I mean, there are lots of books that I've _liked…_ " he sought some sort of defence for himself. "But I guess… I guess I've never _loved_ anything enough for that kind of declaration…"

His eyes found hers, though if she heard his hidden meaning she didn't acknowledge it.

"Gilbert… a favourite book is a friend, a guide, a talisman… It's a comfort to the soul and a memory of things past. It provides inspiration for how things could be. It's something you can connect with so deeply you feel that the author was writing it _about_ and _for_ you… I couldn't have survived without _Jane Eyre._ I've lost myself and found myself in it so many times… You _must_ make it your mission to find your favourite, Gilbert. Otherwise I am afraid there's not much hope for you."

She gave him a wry, knowing smile, and he was newly undone by her passionate speech. Gilbert surveyed the girl – no, the _woman_ \- who was better and braver than him in every way; in ways he was only just coming to know. This woman he was completely and utterly lost to.

Book or no book, he was afraid there wasn't much hope for him, either.

* * *

 _ **Summerside Home for Girls**_

 _ **July 1880**_

 _Katherine Brooke surveyed the pass list for Queen's Academy in Charlottetown; her own alma mater, and one she remained somewhat idiosyncratically fond of. The results would be known generally tomorrow, published in the newspaper, but teaching staff had been appraised of the standings separately through the post. Moreover, they received the individual scores of each student alongside their standings, which was something the powers that be, in their wisdom, thought rightly unhelpful to be known to the general populous._

 _Katherine held a similar page in her other hand from the recently incorporated Summerside Academy; only five years old, the newest teaching institution on the Island was not setting itself up as a rival to the one in the capital, but rather as a younger and somewhat overeager sister. There had been felt on their side of the Island an inequality of opportunities for further education, and the time and distance – not to mention expense – for students to relocate to Charlottetown seemed in this day and age to be unfair and unnecessary. Summerside was already a large town with its own fine academic tradition – the High School and its plethora of Pringles had seen to that – and it was the natural choice for a sister school to the stately Queen's in every sense. It would perhaps never gain the reputation, let alone the status and prestige, of the other fine establishment, but it had an enthusiastic young staff, some very fine modern buildings in the post-Confederation, Victorian Gothic revivalist style; and, put bluntly, a Board of Trustees keen to furnish student numbers with the lure of financial scholarships for the top ten per cent of students in the entrance examinations. To that end it shared the same entrance exam as Queen's itself to ensure parity; however, the lists were separate to one another, depending on whether students sat them at Queen's or Summerside._

 _Anne had been one of around thirty students, amongst those from the High School and the Home, to sit the exams here in Summerside. She had achieved First Ranking on the Summerside pass list, by a long margin. Pleasing, naturally, but unsurprising._

 _Katherine now compared her score to the ranking on the Queen's list. And then very carefully checked again._

First.

Tied for First.

First out of two hundred _to sit the same exams at the academy in Charlottetown._

 _First on the Queen's list was some young man (typically) from some backwater on the other side of the Island; his name was not important to Katherine, only his score._

Anne's score.

 _For a moment Katherine allowed the fantasy of Anne attending Queen's Academy in her stead; of holding her head very high indeed knowing she was the absolute first among equals; of mixing with the invigorating company of the most elite students from all over the Island; of the social and cultural doors opened up to the orphan girl who had only known them to close in her face._

 _It was and could only ever be a fantasy._

 _There was no money to send Anne to Queen's; to pay a minimum year's tuition and board; to cover the costs of everyday expenses; to cover travel costs during the term breaks. Katherine did not have the money to loan her; she was still paying off the princely sum owed to her uncle for the very same thing, and might still be paying it off, painfully piecemeal, until she was fifty. She did not want that sort of indentured servitude for Anne Shirley._

 _Conversely, Summerside Academy would fall over themselves for her, waving their scholarship offer in their sprint to gain the equal top student, and from the local Home no less. She would be able to board at the Home in exchange for helping Katherine tutor the younger children, as the just graduated Miss Baker had done. Anne could begin her teaching career and save for whatever she liked; travel, even college, and what she earned would be hers, and she could face the future squarely, and not to shy from it._

 _Katherine would have the entire day having to congratulate the pampered misters and misses at the High School who had gained a middling place at Queen's or indeed the few who would elect to stay to train at Summerside. In the late afternoon she would make the journey across the town to the Home. A red haired girl, so very changed and yet so not changed these four years, would be waiting with her typical anxiousness, her grey eyes wide, convinced that she had failed spectacularly or, infinitely worse, come out in the middle of the pack. Katherine thought of her face as she shared the news. She might even have smiled in anticipation of it._

* * *

"How long were you at Summerside?" he fought for some control against his own tiredness and against the all-too wonderful feeling of her head heavy against his and her body snuggled into his side.

Anne gave a stifled yawn. "Until I was fifteen, as a proper resident, and then I did my teacher's licence in a year – as you did yourself – at the new teaching academy in Summerside, but I travelled back and forth from the Home as a day student, so as to save on board. Katherine tutored me for the entrance exam – which was the same one as for your Queen's College."

Gilbert's brow furrowed in concentration. "Of course. I remember that now. We did our teaching studies in the same year, didn't we? Which means we would have both sat the same entrance exam the school year before?"

Anne paused herself. "Yes, that would be right. Four years ago last year."

A slow but very definite smile was forming on Gilbert's face.

"It's just that… er… I did _quite well_ on that entrance exam," he ventured.

"Well, congratulations to you, Mr Blythe. I did quite well myself, I'll have you know."

He grinned now at the mild affront in her voice, which was all the confirmation he needed.

"Did you ever see the pass list for Queen's that year, Anne?"

"No, Katherine told me vaguely, but I only actually saw the one for Summerside. I wouldn't have known anyone on the Queen's list, anyway. All she said was that a boy from across the Island achieved the same score as me."

Gilbert was still far in front of her regarding this revelation, and he could hardly contain himself. If the cosmos or Fate or Destiny or Providence had ever had a hand in his life at all, it was in him taking a course in Great English Literature at Redmond. But perhaps those wheels had been set in motion so many years before, and he hadn't even known it.

 _Or she._

"That would have been the _top_ score, then?" he didn't know how he wasn't chuckling in devilish amusement already, perhaps whilst twirling a terrific handlebar moustache.

He felt Anne stir at his words.

"It's just that _my_ teacher told me that someone had matched _my_ score. A girl… from Summerside."

There was another long pause, and then Anne sat back up quickly.

They stared at one another, amazed. The full import of this incredible, beautiful coincidence dawned on them in the simultaneous grins they gave one another.

"Gilbert!" Anne's eyes were shining. "You're kidding me? _Really?_ "

"Yes, _really_ , Anne!" he finally allowed his laughter. Well, I'll be…" his entire face seemed to be beaming. _True minds,_ indeed."

She blushed delightedly, and shook her head in astonishment.

"Well I guess you _are_ as smart as me after all!" he joked.

This deservedly earned him a playful swot on the arm.

" _That_ is a fact you won't be allowed to forget in a hurry!" she giggled, and the sound of it, after her pensive worry and her tears, was a true music to him; a flute, breathy and joyous and pure.

"You know, Anne, this means we're _bonded_ now…" Gilbert's grin continued wide, brilliant and unashamed, and did not fade, particularly when Anne settled herself back down again, against his shoulder.

* * *

Anne had fallen asleep. Gilbert inclined his cheek to rest against her hair. It was silky and soft and felt as bewitching as he had long imagined it would. He kept his hands resolutely at his sides, lest they be tempted to wander to those tendrils, to feel the titian tresses ripple through his fingers.

He stared out into the darkness, the elation of the Queen's exam communion now dissipating, leaving him worn and exhausted already, thinking over what Anne had revealed, hardly able to stand to dwell on it. Her history had been presented to him like the lists he loved; the factual outline; the whistle stop tour of various destinations. _Bolingbroke…Hopetown… Summerside… Kingsport._ Like stations on the train line, or ships she had boarded whose complete passage was unknown.

Gilbert could barely contemplate what lay ahead of them, let alone the story behind the facts and between the lines. What he had heard already was enough to turn his hair grey. Of the pain that still lingered within her pauses; of the gap between the sand of the shore and the sea; in the spaces left by the things she still could not yet bring herself to say.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

" _ **Perhaps Charlie Sloane had guessed and told his guesses for truth." Anne of the Island**_ **(Ch. 28)**

*William Shakespeare _A Midsummer Night's Dream (Act 5 Sc 1)_

**Psalm 24:4 _'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death'_

***From Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892) _The May Queen_

He was indeed Poet Laureate from 1850 until his death.

****John Gibson Lockhart in _Blackwoods Magazine_ (1818). Lockhart had also referred to Keats' _Endymion_ in the same astonishingly scathing review as 'imperturbable drivelling idiocy'.

***** _Anne of Avonlea_ (Ch. 7)

****** _Anne of Green Gables_ (Ch. 5)


	14. Chapter 14 Only This and Nothing More

_Thank you to all the lovely readers who have stuck with me through another long wait for this chapter._

 _I also welcome any new readers who have found this story recently or who have wandered over from my (very) new fic._

 _I appreciate your interest immensely._

* * *

 **Chapter Fourteen**

 **Only This and Nothing More**

* * *

The Summerside Home for Girls was a large, handsome building at the end of a quiet lane; Gilbert thought it had the look of a former hospital; there was something inherently institutional about its wide, foreboding dimensions, made gloomy and hulking in the darkness. If Anne was describing the scene she might say the building glowered down at them for daring to interrupt the sanctity of the slumbering night; definitely the woman who came to the door, peering distrustfully at them, appeared to think as much, if her unwelcoming countenance and greeting was any indication.

"What's all this at this hour of the night?" the woman indignantly shrilled, before looking at Anne more closely, the lamplight by the doorway catching her red hair, which the woman stared at in recognition.

"Matron Burgess…" Anne began.

"Miss Shirley? Oh, good gracious, child!"

"We came as soon as we heard! Miss Katherine – is she… is she…?"

Anne's composure was crumbling fast. From the time they had disembarked at Summerside she had been all jangling nerves and broken sentences. She was so distracted she'd nearly forgotten her carpet bag, which Gilbert now juggled with one hand whilst hoisting his own bag in the other, and he was managing hers perfectly well, despite her reservations, though if there had been time to have a conversation about it he _would_ have owned to the handles being quite temperamental.

"Oh, holy saints! You didn't get the other telegram, did you?" Matron Burgess's distrustful brown eyes grew wide.

" _Other telegram…?"_ Anne bleated, close to breaking. She swayed a little on her feet, and Gilbert moved to stand behind her, worried she might swoon before their eyes on the step. He tried not to scowl at the woman determined to have an entire conversation with them out in the dark, cold night air, heedless of the fact Anne was already halfway to nervous exhaustion, and that they had both travelled hours to get here.

Matron Burgess gave him a decidedly affronted look as she viewed him up and down slowly, as if not quite ever having seen a male specimen before, and then moving her eyes back to Anne.

"Oh, Miss Anne! The other telegram! I sent it a few hours later! Miss Katherine _did_ give us the fright of our lives but she appears to be recovering now, and is resting fairly comfortably…" the woman trailed off as the realisation dawned as to the full import of the miscommunication, which Gilbert felt at that moment rivalled poor Balthazar in _Romeo and Juliet_ racing to the banished Romeo ahead of the Friar's explanation that, it's OK, sit tight for a little while, Juliet is only _appearing_ to be dead.

"Oh, thank God…" Anne muttered, her face very white, and leaned against him.

"Matron Burgess, Ma'am! Miss Shirley is really quite exhausted!" Gilbert couldn't bear this mad inaction a moment longer.

The redoubtable matron drew herself up to her full not-so-considerable inches, glaring at him for his apparent insolence.

"This is my very good friend, Mr Blythe…" Anne breathed. "He accompanied me here from Kingsport."

The Matron looked upon him with new acrimony, even as Gilbert was heartened by his promotion to _very good friend_ status. He received the barest of nods in acknowledgment, and the matron seemed to remember herself and finally ushered them both inside, though she looked like she had rather have preferred to leave Gilbert back on the step with the bags.

The main foyer was dark and the echoes of their footsteps reverberated around them. Gilbert noted very high ceilings and wide corridors, which branched off in different directions. There was a rather grand staircase to the left which they bypassed completely, following the Matron as she hustled them along the endless route towards he knew not where. He glanced at Anne, whose pale, pinched face had a more determined set to it now, and she walked with new resolution, but he still kept protectively close to her all the same.

Gilbert searched for any signs that this was a true _home_ for the girls here, but found not a single painting or photograph or cosy chair to suggest the place had any soul at all. Even the sanatorium in Alberta had contained a decent visitors' lounge and a map on the wall. Perhaps it was different upstairs, where he surmised the girls' dormitories were situated, but at the moment he shuddered to think that Anne had lived here – had grown up here – had spent…. what? Five? Six? years of her life here.

It made him want to grab her hand and bolt with her from the building, never to have her return.

"The Director Mrs Llewelyn has her private quarters at the back," Matron Burgess announced, whether in general explanation or as an unimaginative attempt at conversation Gilbert wasn't sure. "She is not to be disturbed. She was up half the previous night with me with Miss Brooke and is fair exhausted. We've put Miss Brooke in the downstairs guest room, Miss Shirley, so as better to nurse her. We couldn't be going up and down those stairs at all hours. She took a terrible turn and gave us the fright of our lives, I tell you."

The Matron had paused before a pair of great mahogany double doors, which seemed to form the entranceway to some sort of private section.

"Will you _both_ be staying, then?" that disapproving frown was back, as was another long look appraising him.

"Yes, thank you, Matron. After all, Mr Blythe was so good as to accompany me all the way here, I could hardly send him off to camp out in the flowerbeds," Anne made rather archly exasperated reply, and Gilbert bit back a smile at it.

"But Matron…" Anne had moved to put a hand on the woman's arm, "I don't understand. I saw Miss Katherine here over the Christmas break, but I expected she would be back at the High School now. The term resumed several weeks ago."

"Did she not tell you? Oh, that stubborn woman! She had to take a leave of absence from the school; she couldn't shrug this illness of hers. It's been going on for months now."

Anne froze in amazement. " _Months?"_

" _Months?"_ thought Gilbert, his mouth tightening and his brows drawn together as his mind ticked over rapidly.

Matron gave a very theatrical sigh.

"Just go in and see her quickly for goodness' sake, Miss Anne. I know you'll give me no rest till you do. And then after that I'll see about finding _some_ sort of space for you and… er… the gentleman."

An excessive frown followed the sigh, and Matron thrust open the doors and continued walking.

* * *

Gilbert had positioned their bags and coats at the doorway to a fair sized room, furnished plainly; a dim lamplight glowed softly golden but the dark haired woman half reclining in the bed was cast in shadow. Anne looked up at him, her expression unfathomable; fear and worry still stirred in her grey eyes and in the uncertain set of her mouth. He looked down at her and tried to infuse his encouraging smile with all the care and concern that rose in him.

"You go, Anne – I'll wait outside here."

She nodded gravely, and took a shuddering breath as if to rally herself; she approached the bed tentatively.

"Katherine?"

There was a slight stirring from the bed.

"Katherine?"

"Mmm…?"

"Katherine? Katherine… it's Anne."

There was a long pause. "Anne…?" the voice replying was husky and surprisingly deep.

"Oh Katherine! Are you recovering? Are you getting better? Oh, we were so worried!" Anne had staggered to the bed.

"Anne? _Anne Shirley?_ What on… God's… good earth… are you doing here?"

The reply must have been reassuringly sharp and affronted, for Anne's dam burst completely, and she began to sob pitifully, in a way that stabbed at Gilbert's heart, clutching at Katherine Brooke's hand as she collapsed onto her knees by the bed.

"Katherine!" was all Anne could manage, intermittently.

"Anne… Anne… what are you doing? Did someone… send… word?"

"Matron! She sent a telegram – we only received it a few hours ago. We came straight away! They were so worried! That last night you… you…"

"Anne, please, calm yourself. I'm all right. I had a very bad fever… or so they tell me."

"I'm sorry, Katherine. We didn't know. We came straight away…"

"And who… is this _we_ you keep speaking of, Anne Shirley?" Katherine Brooke asked with admirable sharpness, her voice still raw and her breath halting. She cast her eyes towards him hovering in the doorway, squinting to make him out.

"It's all right, Katherine. He came with me. It's Mr Blythe – Gilbert Blythe."

Gilbert, who had ducked back behind the door upon his discovery, stilled, eyes widening, at the familiar way with which Anne referred to him.

"Mr _Blythe?_ "

"Yes. He accompanied me. He was worried that…on my own… the train ride and … the night journey."

"Of _course_ he was." The ensuing reply was very dry. And then, a touch louder. "You may as well show yourself, Mr Blythe."

Gilbert would rather not show himself at all, frankly, but the decision was rather out of his hands. He came quietly through the doorway, shamefaced and colouring unaccountably, noting that Anne had been instructed to turn the other lamp on, as she busily mopped at her tears. He offered her his hankerchief automatically, which she accepted with a tremulous smile, and Katherine Brooke's strangely colored eyes tracked the gesture, her dark brows in her worryingly pale face drawn down like a curtain.

"Katherine, this is Mr Gilbert Blythe. Gilbert, this is Miss Katherine Brooke." Anne introduced them, again in that familiar way, as if Katherine Brooke had heard his name mentioned before.

Gilbert kept himself a respectable distance from the bed, and had ensured the door was very wide open as he came through, through if anyone felt uncomfortable in this unusual situation it was most certainly himself.

"Miss Brooke," he gave a slight bow. "We are very sorry to intrude upon you at this hour. It is an honour to meet you; I am only regretful of the circumstances."

"Mr Gilbert Blythe…" Katherine Brooke's head shifted to her side, as she looked up at him assessingly. "It appears the honour is mine. I half… expected… from the look of you it was the Archangel Gabriel at my door… the sight of _him_ would be hardly less surprising."

Gilbert's lips quirked at this, and all the warnings Anne had hinted regarding the redoubtable Miss Brooke were certainly coming to bear, even with the poor woman here in her sickbed.

"Well, we are greatly relieved to find you are recovering, Miss Brooke. Excuse me whilst I take my leave. I would not wish to interrupt your rest any further." He gave a nod of his head, cast a careful glance at Anne, and retreated to the relative safety of the hallway.

There was much whispering from Anne and Miss Brooke for several more minutes, before he heard Anne take her own leave, turning down one of the lamps, and blowing her nose loudly as she exited.

The look on her lovely face – of relief and joy and happy wonderment – was quite a sight to behold at this uncertain hour of the morning, when they had both travelled hours and were slightly delirious now after the adrenaline of worry and concern had dissipated.

"Oh, Gilbert – it's going to be all right!"

Katherine Brooke still looked very sick to _him_ , in his obviously unqualified opinion, but compared to what she had already come through he found himself smiling regardless.

"Thank you, Gilbert…" Anne reached for his hand, returning his smile tenfold.

"Miss Anne!" Matron Burgess bustled towards them in unfortunately impeccable timing, her arms full of bedding and her sharp voice carrying sufficient warning to make Anne drop his hand immediately.

"Miss Anne – I have your old room made up for you – you share it with Miss Baker now, but she has currently been offered the settee in Mrs Llewelyn's quarters."

"Oh, thank you, Matron! Is Miss Baker here, then?"

"Yes, here _again_ …" Matron Burgess might have given in to an eyeroll, thought Gilbert, if her own clear tiredness was not getting the better of her. "Her latest teaching contract ended at Christmas. She has been tutoring the girls whilst Miss Brooke has been indisposed."

Anne nodded.

Well, Miss Anne, I am sure you wish to retire now after your long journey," Matron Burgess sniffed. "The young gentleman will follow me, please."

Anne gave him a look, which he met with a knowing smile. Gilbert carefully picked up her carpet bag, handing it back to her somewhat ceremoniously, their fingers touching in the exchange.

"Watch the handles, now," he gave her a wink, and then walked off reluctantly behind the Matron.

* * *

Gilbert turned in a full circle in order to try to properly appreciate his new lodgings.

Matron Burgess, with the manner of one whose very life was an unending trial of such interruptions and inconveniences, had sternly instructed him to wait outside the door whilst she fussed, with many grievous huffs and groans, inside the room, emerging red faced and in even poorer humour than when she had entered.

"You will stay _here_ , Mr Blythe," she instructed as a drill sergeant before a recalcitrant private. "There is to be no loitering about the halls. There is a restroom just down to the right. I trust you will fulfil any requirements quickly and then return. We are reliant on your gentlemanly conduct whilst you are under this roof. Have I made myself perfectly clear?"

Gilbert refused to blush. "You have indeed, Matron Burgess. Thank you for your ministrations."

She pursed her lips, nodded and set off. Possibly in search of some small children to newly terrify.

So now he sighed, having indeed washed himself with admirable speed if not dexterity, dubiously surveying the rickety camp bed the matron had set up in the corner, noting the uninviting mustiness of the room and the haphazard arrangement of cleaning equipment stacked in the corner. The only light came from the lantern left forlornly on the floor; there was not even the civilising influence of a little table. He sighed again, pulling down his suspenders and rolling his shoulders, feeling his entire body begin to sag. The camp bed looked like it would hardly hold him, but he was fast realising he was past caring.

There was a scrabbling at the door, and then a wonderful whisper.

"Gilbert? _Gilbert?"_

He nearly kicked over the lamp in his haste to open it.

" _Anne?"_

"Goodness, it took me _ages_ to find you!" Anne's grey eyes glowed brilliantly, and the wry smile lit up her face. "Where on earth has Matron _put_ you?"

"I'm not sure…" he flicked a glance back over his shoulder, "but I think if I get hungry there might be some rats about…"

"Gilbert! Don't you even _joke_ about it!" her very demeanour made it appear she was dancing; she seemed quite giddy with relief over Katherine Brooke, and it was making her charmingly – and altogether too temptingly – enthusiastic and silly. She brushed past him to stand by his side at the doorway, and her face fell at what she saw.

"Oh, Gilbert, it's a broom cupboard!" she observed with dramatic sorrow.

"Well… it isn't very large, I grant you, but…"

"No, Gilbert – it's the _actual_ broom cupboard! Oh, I can't believe this! This is _scandalous!"_

What was most scandalous at that moment was not his lodgings but the way her maddening proximity made his blood sing.

"Well, I _tried_ to tell your Matron that I was President of Freshman Year, football captain and current _respectable_ second in my English class, but it didn't appear to make much of an impression…"

She turned and gave him such a beautiful smile it made his heart stutter.

"I was so wrong, Gilbert Blythe. You are not just on your way towards good and decent. You are already _wonderful._ "

Before he could even react, she had launched herself at him, arms flung around his neck as audaciously as anything she had done in his dreams. He barely had a chance to return her embrace before she withdrew, cheeks heated, and gave him a low _good night_ before retreating back to the endless, shadowy halls.

He was rather dazed as he climbed atop the creaking bed. He was going to peruse _The Physicians' Hand-book_ but couldn't face it. He drifted off to sleep with a smile, afloat on the memory of Anne's embrace. _Let the rats come for him_ , he felt like shouting the challenge from the rooftops. And even, dare he say it, Matron Burgess.

* * *

Gilbert awoke to an aching back and a growling stomach. Inside his veritable broom cupboard- in every respect – it was impossible to ascertain if it was night or day or some netherworld in between. He shuffled over to the dim outline of the door and fumbled for his pocket watch, still in the trousers he had slept in. Opening the door a crack, he squinted down to see with some relief it was only a little shy of seven in the morning.

He wasted no time in making himself look respectable again; he hardly wanted to give the Matron or anyone else any excuse to cast him off to some boarding house in the town. He had come to be with Anne and he _had_ to remain near her… not merely as a promise or even as protection, but because she was a puzzle he was still putting together, and she was trusting pieces of herself slowly but surely, and he knew that being here in Summerside was one of the biggest pieces of all.

Closer to eight, he surmised, there was a firm knock at the door.

"Matron Burgess!" he greeted with deliberate alacrity and a firm smile, deciding that if his much vaunted charm was ever to be employed in appropriate challenge it would be in winning over this most reluctant of ladies. "Good Morning, Ma'am."

The woman blinked in clear surprise several times.

"Good Morning, Mr… Blythe. We have breakfast ready in the dining hall."

Well, that was a reassuring enough concept; he had breakfast in their mid sized dining hall at the boarding house every day, and thought he had a fair chance of managing the process here. He followed Matron out, looking about him thoughtfully, noting again the vast spaces of the interiors, and seeing his broom cupboard was positioned near to those mahogany doors leading to the room where Katherine Brooke resided and along from where he presumed Anne was also staying.

They were across the lobby and soon ascending the staircase.

"You will please be mindful of the girls as they come in to breakfast, Mr Blythe," Matron Burgess warned. "They are not used to seeing gentlemen here, but for the occasional groundsman or the Inspector who visits every three months."

"Certainly, Matron, Ma'am," he murmured.

"You will come in with the adult party. I will make your introduction."

"Thank you."

At the top of the staircase was an equally vast first floor; he glimpsed a very large dormitory to his right with row upon row of neatly made beds; next to that were several doors closed off, and following on he heard the vague sounds - and identifiable smells - of a kitchen. Before another large, open room stood the party of women Matron had made mention of; a tall, handsome, middle aged woman with fine bone structure and a supercilious air; a younger, fair woman with a wondering expression and a mop of frizzy blonde curls marshalled into submission; another younger woman, darker, who resembled, perhaps purposefully, the older one in looks and bearing; two younger Matrons in identical uniform to Matron Burgess; and finally, like a beautiful, delicate, slender iris in a garden of yarrow, there was Anne.

Her lovely grey eyes met his, perhaps in apology; she gave the slightest helpless shrug of her shoulders before he was introduced around.

"Mr Blythe," the Director, Mrs Llewelyn, extended her hand. "What an unexpected surprise to have such a visitor, but how very good of you to accompany our Miss Shirley. It sets a wonderful example to our girls to see anyone off to Redmond College. You are undertaking studies there yourself?"

"Yes, indeed, Mrs Llewelyn, Ma'am. A Bachelor of Arts alongside Miss Shirley."

"How splendid," Mrs Llewelyn smiled, though the action fell far short of genuine animation.

Once Gilbert had been received by the Director's assistant, the Miss Baker mentioned the previous evening, and the two other Matrons, he was able to be shepherded along into the dining hall; large tables were already laid, and a collection of girls of various heights, sizes and presumably ages stood at the ready by long benches; from their raised position on their platform above them all Gilbert could identify was a sea of grey, with the bobbing white caps atop as if buoys cresting the dull colored waves.

He found himself, unfortunately and no doubt deliberately, beside Mrs Llewelyn's stern and not overly verbose assistant Miss Wethers; she was a graduate – if such a term was appropriate – of the Home herself, as he also learned Miss Baker was, and had been to Fred's commercial college in Kingsport to pursue secretarial studies. One might have thought this to be a good conversational opening between them, but Gilbert was soon shut down on that score and several others as firmly as the snapping cover of her imagined stenographer's notebook. Gilbert was beginning to wonder how anything lovely and delicate and unique as Anne had had any chance to survive here, much less flourish; as he surveyed the quiet, regimented order of the girls in their austere surrounds – indeed frighteningly Dickensian, and he made a mental note never to tease her on that subject again, for he was painfully and belatedly realising it was her lived experience – his throat closed over at her having been here. He turned his attention to his tea; he struggled to swallow. He was lucky to not bring up his breakfast completely.

The girls were dismissed and drifted out; he noted numerous darting, wide eyed looks in his direction, which made Anne smile knowingly and Matron Burgess frown excessively; he then had the various ladies take their leave, and he was finally, mercifully, left alone with Anne.

She was thoughtful and quiet this morning; he missed her giddiness of the previous late evening (early morning?) as much as he missed that beautiful long red braid which was now bound back up in a respectable knot at her nape. He searched her eyes to try to find a sign for how she was faring; he wasn't at all convinced he was now doing so well himself.

"How are you?" he asked earnestly.

"I'm fine…" she faltered.

"Anne?"

"I saw Katherine before breakfast. She is rather chilled but in fairly good spirits," she attempted brightly.

"That is certainly a relief to hear. I may pop in to her later if you feel it's appropriate."

"You are a brave soul, Gilbert Blythe. I believe she would like that, though she would never tell you." Anne tried a tired smile.

"What's wrong, Anne? Is it me being here?"

Her eyes shadowed at the question, and he could have kicked himself, but he thought they were getting past false pretences now.

"No… yes… oh, Gilbert, I don't know!"

She walked across to the banister, grasping it firmly, and turned back to one of the previously shut doors, which was now opened to their view, and he could see it was a neat classroom, with about twenty older girls sitting quietly, and the blonde Miss Baker fluttering around with indeterminate effectiveness.

"You had your lessons here?" he questioned gently.

"Yes," she let out a sigh. "I had them here, and then I took them myself. I tutored girls for Queen's and the Academy here in Summerside as I myself was tutored. I taught at Summerside High School for two years on my own merit certainly but also on the strength of Katherine's recommendation – she was Head of English, you know – despite the old money families of the town, notably the Pringles, raising all manner of objections… And the rub is I was moderately happy. I was working and saving and trying to make a bit of a difference, trying to do that purposeful, _honest, real work in the world_ that you mentioned on the train. But I _wasn't_ out in the real world, was I, Gilbert? I was in this institutional bubble. It's very… very… _close knit_ here, you will have seen. Girls grow up in the Home and then they train and then they teach here at the Home, or end up always finding their way back through some demented magnetic force, like Miss Baker, who was here when I myself arrived. It's a neverending circle. There's a terrible fatalism about it… Even Katherine herself… _She_ was the one who convinced me to aim for Redmond. I might have never aimed that high – or that _far -_ if not for her. But she knew she had been trapped and she didn't want to see me trapped too. And now I come back here and I see them treat you with such suspicion and… and… you don't realise what a _cage_ this has been, until you're free of it. But its only on the outside looking back in that you ever even notice the bars…"

She was on edge more than he had realised; she wavered, then gave an almighty sob and covered her face in her hands, and then he watched, aghast, as she fled down the stairs.

" _Anne!"_

He didn't mean to shout; it certainly wasn't a place that saw shouting, or, he thought, her wretched, wrenching tears. He took the steps two at a time in his haste to catch her; he thought fleetingly of that day when something in him had made him follow her down the steps at Redmond after class. He caught her at a set of great glass doors overlooking an outside area of lawn and forest not far from the private rooms. He seized her in his arms and turned her into him, and he didn't care how many Matrons saw and how it would be construed.

"Anne…" he crooned to her as she sobbed. "Anne… I think you are much too hard on yourself. Perhaps you sought the safety and predictability of this place for a while, after those experiences in the _real world_ you mentioned… Marysville and Hopetown and all the rest… the real world was a cruel and unkind place for you. And I'm so sorry for it. You don't know how sorry I am. I don't know what inner strength you had to survive those places, or even to survive _here…_ but that strength and those experiences led you to Kingsport…" he paused as she quietened, marshalling his emotions. "And I am so grateful they did…"

He swallowed, fighting the urge to say more.

"And if it hadn't been Kingsport, it would have been somewhere else… because you were never meant to take the regular road, Anne Shirley. You were never meant for ordinary things. You were always a bird meant to fly free and unencumbered…" he choked back a laugh. "There, Miss Shirley, you've made me talk in metaphors again."

She drew back from him, trying her own sob-smile.

"You mean _'no net ensnares me?'_ " * she sniffed, eyes bright and swimming.

He contemplated this, and nodded. "That's much more poetic than my attempt. But yes, that's it exactly."

"You've just now both inverted _and_ paraphrased _Jane Eyre_ for me, Gilbert." Her arch, pleased smile broke through her tears.

He sighed and rolled his eyes, unable to resist a small chuckle. "All right, Anne. You win," his arms gave her a final reassuring squeeze before he reluctantly released her. "I hereby officially admit defeat with regard to the Brontes."

* * *

Anne appeared in much better spirits afterwards, and they passed the remainder of the morning without incident. Gilbert tried to be as helpful and obliging – and as unobtrusive – as possible, offering his services for any menial tasks that might need attending to, and thus freeing Anne to be with Katherine, which in turn freed Matron Burgess from both her nursing obligations and from some of her ill humour. In all honesty he tried in every way to not imagine himself and Anne back at Redmond, taking all before them in their presentation on the sonnets, dovetailing their pride and happiness and success into the walk to the tea room of his mind's eye, where it could finally be just _them_ … chatting companionably, flirting outrageously, and kissing sweetly in the new delightful flush of understanding between them, as they began to promise and plan and cleave themselves to the other.

It was a dream that was difficult to relinquish, and he held onto the comforting thought of it steadfastly, even as he was already distanced from it, not just geographically but emotionally. It was a sweet dream made naïve now, having seen Anne here, having already shared what they had together, having her release some precious pieces of herself to his safekeeping. He could hardly want to go back in time, for what they already were together now in these new circumstances was infinitely richer and better and stronger… but he was at sea trying to fashion a new dream for them, for it refused to shape itself in any way, and that frustrated him more than he wanted to admit, even to himself.

It was, however, a marginally positive measure, he supposed, that he found himself just after lunch, on a chair on the very edge between the wide open doorway to Katherine's room and the passageway outside, whilst Anne took the opportunity to visit with some of her former students upstairs, and Matron or someone deputised for her occasionally glanced in the door with characteristic disapproval. Katherine was asleep, and in the interests of the clear absence of any other reading material, he carefully balanced the _Physician's Hand-book_ on his knee, and was so engrossed that he was completely startled by that throaty, surprisingly firm voice, and his precious tome nearly ended up on the floor.

"That is rather interesting reading material, Mr Blythe, for a student undertaking the first year of their Bachelor of Arts."

Gilbert in that moment felt as if one of his father's beloved cows at the undesirable end of a cattle prod.

"Miss Brooke!" he stood hastily. "Forgive me, I didn't know you were awake."

"Evidently, Mr Blythe," Katherine Brooke remarked dryly, and heaved herself up to a sitting position. Gilbert hardly knew where to look, though Miss Brooke, having complained of the cold, was swaddled in bedclothes up to her chin.

"I'll fetch Matron or Anne for you, Miss Brooke…" he offered falteringly.

"And whatever for, Mr Blythe? Are either of us in imminent danger? Apart from that of death through boredom and frustrating… inaction?"

He smiled a little, acknowledging, perhaps in his fleeting look, their joint difficulties.

"Nonetheless, Miss Brooke, I really should…"

"Don't go all skittish, Mr Blythe. It doesn't do you any favours. I am perfectly resigned to your presence. I am not a creature of conformity… and neither is our mutual acquaintance upstairs."

"No indeed, Miss Brooke," his smile was fond just at the thought of her, but he masked it quickly, though perhaps not quickly enough, noting the sharp look directed at him.

"Must I continue to shout at you across the room, Mr Blythe?"

He took that as his cue – or his command - to carry his chair towards the general proximity of her bed, juggling his _Hand-book_ carefully. He sat down before her as he felt he would do before one of his professors before an unfortunate grilling on his coursework.

"So then, Mr Blythe, have you figured what is wrong with me yet?"

He spluttered a gobsmacked laugh, which seemed to amuse her.

"Miss Brooke… I hardly know how to respond to that!"

"Well, what is to account for your unusual choice? You are hardly perusing the sonnets of Shakespeare."

He colored annoyingly at the leading arch to her bushy brow.

"I guess one might call it a hobby, Miss Brooke. My Great Uncle is a doctor."

She raised both eyebrows at that.

"It looks less like a hobby and more like an ambition, Mr Blythe."

Gilbert was mentally revising all the metaphors he had created with regard to meeting Miss Brooke, and found a new one, _stretched before her on the rack_ , to be now appropriate.

"Still much more of the former, Miss Brooke…" he allowed.

"I dare say the Gold Medallist at Queen's and the President of his Freshman Year at Redmond is not averse to ambitious undertakings."

Gilbert's own dark brows flew to his forehead.

"You seem surprised I am aware of such details?"

Gilbert fought the desire to have his mouth open and close comically, like a fish. "I own to being a little surprised, Miss Brooke. You see, I don't doubt Anne has been in your confidence… only that…"

"That _you_ have featured in such confidences?"

Gilbert cast his eyes about, settling momentarily on the floor, in some attempt to conjure a great hole in the ground he could disappear into.

"I am an alumnus of Queen's College, Mr Blythe. I have a fair head for remembering details offered in their newsletters."

"Oh, well, of course…"

" _And_ on the Queen's entrance exam pass lists."

She gave off a small, pleased smile, that reminded him somewhat of Anne when she was being haughty. She let the knowledge sit with him for a moment.

"I wondered at that, Miss Brooke. We only discovered that particular… connection… between us on the train coming here." He sat up straighter, remembering he possessed a backbone. "Anne told me she only ever saw the list for Summerside."

"Yes, that's true," Katherine remarked unrepentantly. "I thought it for the best. There was no possibility of her going to Queen's. Which was perhaps fortunate for you and your Gold Medal."

Gilbert quirked a smile. "I believe you are right about that, Miss Brooke. Though perhaps we could have split the Medal and the Avery between us, in the interests of fairness."

Katherine allowed her own tight smile, which this time reached her arresting amber eyes.

"Yes, perhaps, Mr Blythe."

That sat somewhat more companionably. Gilbert fiddled with the spine of his _Hand-book._

"You know that Anne is ambitious too, Mr Blythe," Katherine Brooke continued. "And incredibly talented. As I'm sure you have discovered."

"And they are some of the very qualities I most admire in her, Miss Brooke."

"The world is finally opening up to her … I only hope that certain… _friendships_ she might make at Redmond, whilst very lovely for her, wouldn't jeopardise her opportunities."

Gilbert flushed. Now they were getting to it.

"I assure you, Miss Brooke, I would only ever want the best for Anne. _Wherever_ those opportunities were to take her."

Katherine Brooke's lips pursed. "I do believe you, Mr Blythe. The difficulty is in Anne herself knowing what she wants… and sorting _through_ those opportunities."

Katherine Brooke let the observation hang in the air.

"Has she told you of some of her history?"

"Yes, Miss Brooke. Reluctantly. Snatches, admittedly."

"Hopetown Asylum?"

Gilbert tried not to frown. "She has mentioned she was there, after being fostered with the Hammonds."

Katherine Brooke's impassive face faltered slightly. "That time still resonates for her very powerfully, Mr Blythe. I do not pretend to know everything of her experiences, but I do know that much." She noted his perturbed expression, and changed tack with lightening speed. "Has she shown you anything of her writing?"

Gilbert was genuinely puzzled.

"Her writing? As in creatively?"

"That is usually what the term implies."

"Er… no." He made every effort not to scowl.

"Well, it's probably for the best, Mr Blythe. Most of her recent writings probably feature yourself. Possibly in the style of whichever writers you are currently studying." She grimaced out a smile, as if reliving some secret joke.

Gilbert bit back a sigh. He wanted to like Katherine Brooke. Infact, he _did_ like her. He wasn't afraid of blunt, no nonsense, strong women. He'd grown up around Mrs Rachel Lynde and Mrs Harmon Andrews, for goodness' sake. Not to mention the fearsome personage of Aunt Mary Maria Blythe. It was just a little harder when the joke was on him… and when it was about Anne.

Katherine noted his discomfort, and her expression didn't soften, but certainly altered.

"Be that as it may, I'd like to return to my original question, Mr Blythe," Katherine Brooke ventured with new resolution. "Have you figured what is wrong with me?"

Now he _did_ sigh. "Miss Brooke… as we have established, I am undertaking a BA. I'm years off even _being_ a medical student…"

"Mr Blythe, with all due respect, you are an intelligent, thoughtful, observant man. You read and you understand. You consider from all angles. And you have a pre-established interest in medical enquiry. I would already consider you to be ahead of the last _actual_ member of the profession who saw me, _that_ gentleman being convinced my inability to get out of bed these past four weeks to be due to a nervous, hysterical disposition."

Gilbert's eyes widened, genuinely shocked.

"Miss Brooke… that is… that is a _shameful_ conclusion to come to."

Her face was very stern. "It is indeed, Mr Blythe. So what can you offer me instead?"

Gilbert spent a good half hour in discussion with Katherine Brooke about her recent medical history, on which she was thorough, reasoned and not the least hysterical. He talked to her of her influenza, and of the troubling malaise that had debilitated her since. He questioned her as to every possible internal trouble from her heart down to her kidneys. He discussed her current clamminess and her recent, almost life threatening fever. He felt, for the first time, genuinely empowered; he saw, for the first time, her grudging respect.

Anne came through the door, and was astonished enough at the sight before her to stop up short. Gilbert turned, mid sentence, and was struck as if the sun itself had just wandered in to that dimly lit room.

"Anne!" he leapt up, forgetting himself entirely. He felt the automatic grin light his face.

"Hello Gilbert!" she offered her wonderful smile, before coloring slightly and darting a quick glance at Katherine. "Ah, I'm so sorry to have been away from you for so long." She directed the apology at Katherine; her eyes found his.

"I really should take my leave, Miss Brooke. It has been a pleasure… and most educational."

"Thank you for your company, Mr Blythe," Katherine muttered somewhat reluctantly, and he bit back his grin to see Anne's jaw drop in astonishment.

He gave her a wink, just to make her redden, and turned back to bow at Katherine, hazel eyes meeting amber ones.

As he was nearly out the door a voice halted him.

"Mr Blythe?" Katherine Brooke called.

He turned in response.

"Please do continue your reading, by all means."

He saw the first subtle wavering in her composure, and it made him tighten his grip on the tome he had lugged from Kingsport.

"I will indeed, Miss Brooke," he nodded in silent vow.

* * *

After an interminable day Gilbert had ducked in to wish Miss Brooke goodnight; he'd hardly seen Anne that afternoon and only across a crowded dining hall at dinner; once Matron Burgess had decided he did not pose an immediate threat to person or property she had foisted all manner of odd jobs upon him, and he could feel the frustration rise even as he swallowed it down, like a bitter medicine.

Katherine Brooke was looking tired but determined to endure; exactly as he felt. Anne was by her bedside; there was the tacit understanding they might travel back to Kingsport tomorrow, and he didn't want to begrudge her any remaining time with her friend.

Anne turned to him at the door, and again gave that smile; he thought his day had been long but she had endured years of long days here; he gave himself a mental shake and found his smile.

"I have just come to wish you good night, ladies," he offered gallantly, loathe to think this would be the way he would part from Anne as well, but striving for at least the _appearance_ of decency.

"Gilbert…" Anne crossed over to him, "I hear Matron has run you ragged. I'm very sorry!"

"Don't worry about it. Pleasure to be of service!"

She had a hand on his arm. "Sit a minute with Katherine, Gilbert; I'll fetch you both some water."

She ducked out before he could refuse; he looked over to Miss Brooke and approached her carefully, and sat down in Anne's seat as she indicated.

"Hello, Miss Brooke."

"Good Evening, Mr Blythe."

"I'm sorry I haven't had the chance to further my reading."

"I am gathering you have been quite busily engaged elsewhere."

"Indeed." He gave a small smile; he opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again.

"I believe you have a question to ask me, Mr Blythe, and I'm relieved to think it has nothing to do with your previous extended obsession with ulcers."

Gilbert should have grown used to Katherine Brooke's probing, unapologetic directness by now, but he was still startled to be so easily read. He thought, fleetingly, that if he ever made it to medical school he would have to practice his impassive, detached demeanour; his _doctor's face._

"Miss Brooke, as usual, you seem to be three steps ahead of me. No wonder you and Anne made such a formidable team."

She cocked her head to one side. "And _you,_ Mr Blythe, are wondering if I see you and _she_ as a team."

He was sure he had coloured like some lovesick swain at her observation, and he shifted in his seat, those amber eyes regarding him too curiously.

"I do appreciate you not beating around the bush, Miss Brooke."

"And _I_ would appreciate the same, Mr Blythe."

He was well and truly caught in his own web, now; a fly helpless before her spider.

"Very well, Miss Brooke. We may perhaps leave tomorrow and I wish you to know that… I would like to court Anne. I have hoped for it for quite a while. You are the closest person to her; her family. I wondered that I might… not obtain your permission, obviously, but perhaps your blessing."

There were several extraordinarily uncomfortable moments, during which that amber gaze on him was completely uncompromising.

"Well, Mr Blythe. There we have it. I am completely unsurprised. _Anne_ might be still unsure of your feelings but I cannot be; every time she walks into the room you only see _her._ "

Gilbert felt the full colour rise to his cheeks now, but Katherine Brooke, typically, was hardly finished.

"Luckily for you she has learned to be a little better at circumspection, but obviously not much. The two of you together have been enough to _give_ me an ulcer."

Gilbert smiled sheepishly.

Katherine Brooke took a long, rather difficult breath.

"She needs someone to stand _beside_ her, Gilbert Blythe – not to fall at her feet."

"Yes, Miss Brooke – I well understand you."

"Yes, but you are still not there to completely understanding _her._ I wonder at it, Mr Blythe, despite your best intentions. You have a strong connection with her, obviously. That will mean a great deal to her. She is all about her _kindred spirits._ But I rather think you still believe yourself to be her heroic rescuer. She may be charmed by that but its not what she needs. Goodness knows she's rescued _herself_ enough times. She's pulled herself up by her own bootstraps on more occasions than you would ever comprehend. But she needs you to see her _clearly_ , Gilbert Blythe. To not put your own dreams and projections onto her. She needs you to know her and to see her as she is, to understand her and to accept her… even the parts she herself would wish to forget."

Gilbert felt sure his face was burning now. He could forgive Katherine Brooke for being protective of Anne – he liked her very much _for_ it – but he felt she didn't quite appreciate the depth of their relationship. He felt he knew things about Anne that, save Miss Brooke herself, no one else did, except, perhaps, Diana or possibly Phil. He understood there were still things to know about her but he knew… and understood… and _loved_ so much more about her already, things that their very journey to get here and even their brief time together today had uncovered.

"I do understand your reasonings here too, Miss Brooke," he tried not to sound defensive. "But I care for Anne very much, and, respectfully, if I still need to get to know her that is the very idea behind my wish to _court_ her."

Katherine Brooke's tight almost-smile took in his discomfort.

"You do realise that you don't need my blessing, Mr Blythe – only _hers_."

Before Gilbert could answer, Katherine's eyes looked past him to the doorway. Anne stood, with a pitcher and glasses, wide eyed and still, obviously having heard it all, or at least enough.

Gilbert groaned loudly to himself. _Perfect._

"Excuse me, Miss Brooke, with Anne back I will leave you to her much preferable company," Gilbert gave a wide, unconvincing smile. He took his leave of her with a nod; he gave Anne a quick sidelong glance of regret as he brushed past her, forgetting the water and everything else in his desire to get away, unable to even trust any words to her.

He stalked out, furious with himself and perhaps with Katherine too for having forced his hand; this was so very different to how he had planned everything in his head that it was farcical. He wanted to find some sort of escape from this wretched place and from his wretched feelings. He had wanted it to be perfect when he asked Anne, and instead she had overheard him discuss such a momentous thing as if commenting on the weather.

He found his room, though the description was an insulting one to rooms in general; he thought he might shut himself away in its tomb-like dimensions and dive under the covers and bury himself, in every sense.

He heard rapid steps, and he turned to see her. _Naturally._

" _Please,_ Anne, don't follow me in here!" he hissed.

" _Gilbert?_ "

"I'm sure Miss Brooke still needs somebody with her."

"Miss Baker has come for her." Anne gulped at the doorway. "Gilbert? "To _court_ you?"

He had his hands on his hips in exasperation.

"I spoke out of turn. I'm sorry, Anne. Forgive me. It was very thoughtless and selfish, and it's certainly not the time nor the place for this discussion."

"Forgive _me,_ Gilbert, but I think we are already in the _middle_ of this discussion."

He attempted to pace up and down, and managed about three steps in either direction.

"When?" Anne asked quietly.

He looked at her curiously.

"When would you have asked me?"

He tried his best to deflect her. "About five seconds after I met you. Before I teased you and you hated me for a month."

" _Gilbert…"_

He sighed, and tried not to look unaccountably lovelorn and pathetic.

"At the end of our date at the tea room today, if we hadn't come here; after our sonnets presentation."

Anne's eyes had widened to saucers.

"Oh, Gilbert!"

He looked at her sharply. "That's not a rapturous _yes, thank you, oh Gilbert._ That sounds like an _oh Gilbert, I need to let you down gently_ kind of response, Anne!"

She stuck her nose very high in the air at _that_ rejoinder.

"I can hardly know my response to a question that hasn't even been _asked,_ Gilbert!"

"Well, I am hardly in a position to ask you _now,_ Anne! Heck, I can't _believe_ all this was so easy for Fred!" he was pacing again, and all the regret and disappointment spilled out of him. "He went to _one_ dance with Diana, he saw her two weeks later over Christmas, he asked her, she said yes! _Perfect!_ "

"Gilbert, Fred Wright by all accounts has grown _up_ with Diana! As have you! It's completely different! They know one another and…"

"And _we_ don't? Regardless, isn't that the whole _idea_ of courting _,_ Anne, if I'm not very much mistaken?"

"But Gilbert! There are… there are steps… before that!" Anne actually rung her hands.

"Steps?"

"Surely you would know, from anyone you've actually courted _before!_ " she retorted rather hotly. "There are… _calls_ to be made and… ah… _dates…_ and… _intentions_ … and…." she trailed off.

"Have I not made my intentions _clear_ towards you, Anne?"

She blushed fiercely at that.

"You're, right, Gilbert – this is not the sort of conversation we – "

"Anne!" he pleaded, grabbing her hand.

They stood together in the doorway.

"Does _this_ not matter?" he urged her. "That I'm _here._ In these…" he turned his head as if in great admiration, " _salubrious_ surrounds?"

"Of course it does! More than you could ever know! More than I could ever express to you!"

"And so?"

"And so…." she still managed to fidget with the fingers of her free hand, "you have made your _friendship_ very clear…" she swallowed with difficulty. "You have made your _academic admiration_ very clear…" she cast her eyes to the floor. "You have made your _chivalry_ and _goodness_ very clear."

He held her hand, and was very quiet.

"But not my feelings?" his voice was throaty and raw.

Her face burned even more brightly, if possible; a mirror for her hair.

"Anne…" his voice was so low he could hardly make out his own words, "forgive me my ignorance. Despite all indications to the contrary – and despite what you may have heard from Charlie or any of the Avonlea girls or even Pris, who met me at Queen's… I haven't ever officially courted _anyone._ "

"No?" she squeaked.

"No. A _resounding_ no. I rather think I'd remember it if I had."

She gave a flustered and completely endearing little smile.

He reached up and lifted her hand, turned it palm up, and kissed it slowly. Her fingers curled around the gesture.

"The only reason I am able to stop myself from kissing you properly right now, Anne Shirley, is that I'll be _hanged_ if our first kiss is going to happen in a _broom cupboard._ "

He waited for her blush, which arrived on cue; it was her intake of breath and her quick reply that undid him.

"You have quite the faith in your own powers of attraction, Mr Blythe." Her voice was not quite even.

"Yes indeed, Miss Shirley. I believe I get that from my father." His voice was hardly steady either.

He squeezed her hand and let it go, reluctantly backing away. As much as his entire being cried out to arrest this ache for her, to proclaim her power over him, he had to remember why they were here; they were not on some romantic assignation. She was here for Katherine Brooke, and he was here for her.

The temptation of her was _far_ too great. Particularly when his very own Eve still remained in the doorway, looking pensive and much too lovely.

"What if…?" Anne questioned. "What if we _weren't_ … in a broom cupboard?"

For once he didn't quite understand what she was getting at.

"Sorry, Anne," he attempted a sardonic grin. "I am positive you could imagine this as anything… probably even as a magical bower of trees and flowers under a canopy of stars. You may well be able to imagine that, and to make it work. You're probably the only person I know who _could._ Goodness only knows you've had to survive on your imagination your entire life. But I'm not built that way, Anne. I can't do that. I look around me and all I see is a broom cupboard."

She shrugged her shoulders, her look and her tone wistful. Her face was still very flushed. "Well, then."

He felt his brows knit together. _Had he just missed something?_ It felt like they were having two entirely different conversations. And then he stilled. _When is a broom cupboard not a broom cupboard?_

Oh, _Good God._ In that moment he could have launched himself at the door and slammed it shut; to lock them away from the world. What was he _thinking?_ He had been given his chance, right here, right this very second, and he had thrown it away. He would spend the rest of his life _wishing_ he was back in this broom cupboard.

 _You stupid idiot, Blythe!_

Anne seemed to be able to hear his scathing internal monologue. She turned to take a step out of the doorway, and then, very deliberately, turned back to him, a beautiful, quivering smile on her lips and a question in her grey eyes, which darkened as she looked at him.

" _Well,_ then?"

He was startled by her change of inflection. He sought her eyes with his own question, and the newly audacious reply in hers made the heat come to his cheeks. She left the door ajar and slipped through it, and he followed her.

* * *

They stole silently across the wide floors and the shadow islands made by the moonlight filtering through the windows. At the huge glass doors backing onto the outside grounds they paused, and Anne turned the nib to unlock them, but she pushed at the pane and it would not budge.

"Oh!" she breathed shakily, twisting the knob and giving the door a little rattle of frustration. "Oh, _no!_ "

"Anne!" he whispered in caution, and he had his hand over hers; he then reached up his other and slid the bolt out from the top of the door.

He didn't contemplate the madness of their actions; they closed the door behind them and ran.

Anne was a wood nymph he was chasing in the darkness; a fairy sprite with red hair streaming behind her; his very own true life _dryad of the trees._ The cold air was fresh and biting after the stale stillness of inside; he felt like laughing crazily; a very happy escapee from this particular asylum, for the silly, schoolboy joyfulness in him was filling his lungs and spreading through his body. They darted across the lawn and into the polite tangle of the trees, where the moon played hide-and-seek with the dappled figure just before him. He had to trust she knew where she was going. She already trusted that he would follow.

Anne halted abruptly, and he was chasing so fast he almost sailed right past her. He was careful not to pull up short; his football training an intrinsic bodily knowledge, and he slowed and jogged in a little self conscious circle back to her. She was giggling and gasping; and then she bent over, and he grinned to himself, and crossed in front of her. His hand was on her waist without thought.

" _Breathe,"_ he directed.

He grinned again, for his hand on her appeared to make her rather incapable of following the instruction.

He remembered himself and stepped back, giving her space, and thrust his hands into his pockets, lest they stray to any other parts of her person uninvited.

"Look _up_ , Gilbert!" she smiled widely, as her breathing slowed.

He craned his neck to view the canopy of stars he had himself outlined, vast and glorious, with a full moon besides, which may have gone some way to accounting for much of their present behaviour.

"That's amazing!"

"It _is!_ But I meant the _tree!"_ Anne laughed.

He looked back to her, and then up above her, and understood.

An apple tree.

He chuckled and shook his head, peering at the dusky, frost-bitten fruit on some of the lower branches, made into dark orbs in the night. He approached to stand by Anne, patting the trunk firmly.

"Well, she's not the best example, but it _is_ winter – they don't like the cold; particularly with these stiff sea breezes from that harbour you mentioned." He turned to see Anne leaning her back against the cool wood, gazing up at him with a bemused expression, the shadows across her face reminding him of that magical dance they had shared at Redmond.

"Wow, it really is true about Islanders and their apple trees."

"You'd better believe it, Anne Shirley," his voice had become a dark, displaced, gravelly thing, seemingly unconnected to his body, as he returned her stare. She was the first to break eye contact and look down, her pale cheeks betraying her blush, even in the near darkness.

He dipped his head to murmur to her.

"There's a special apple tree of my own that I long to show you, Anne. Back home, in Avonlea."

"There is?" she breathed.

"There is." He had made it a vow.

Gilbert watched the face that had long haunted him, pale and pearled in the moonlight; luminous in her loveliness. He couldn't even believe they had just come out here; the forbidden allure of being properly alone with her was a dance they had shared since they had left Redmond, and suddenly it was made startlingly real, even as he felt in the sway of their moonstruck madness. If he could think much of anything clearly in this moment he might have questioned her motivations; might have lingered on the symmetry and symbolism of this girl, trapped all her life, finding a special comrade to escape with and finally breaking free. He would have understood that, absolutely, as he was coming to understand her, despite Katherine Brooke's vague misgivings. But what he understood now was much more elemental; it was of their new, shared understandings, borne not of _her_ past but of _their_ present; it was of their own undeniable simpatico, their chemistry together; it was of water and waves, of smoke and fire, of friendship and faith, of acceptance and attraction… she was grey eyes made green when he looked at her. He was a thumping heart and blood burning in his veins when he was near her. She was a woman trusting to wait in the dark with him and he was the man who loved her and they had shared everything but the inevitable outcome of that truth.

He reached out to her hair; to those tendrils he had longed to touch, then to her face, his long fingers pausing, stuttering, at her cheek, stroking gently, tracing a shaking, delicate path down from her brow to her jaw. He saw her shallow, trembling breath at his touch, but only heard and felt his own.

"Oh, _Anne_ …" her name rushed from him, on his breath, to curl on the cold night air and float away in the darkness.

He needed to see her, to try to read her; he raised her face to him gently.

What he saw in her expression; her staring eyes, her softly parted lips, her head bent back to meet his, very nearly undid him; the elemental fought to take control over him, and he tried to wrestle his rational self away to safety. This was new to _him,_ too; this tug, this fight, this heat, this _wanting._ He wished to surrender himself to it completely; he yearned to press himself against the length of her as they backed into the tree. He wanted to kiss her soundly, with the thrumming, persistent passion that beat away the sense in his brain. He wanted them both to abandon themselves to this thing between them and let it drown them. But another part of him knew, instinctively, that could not be the way of it here; there was, he sensed, something still bruised in her from long ago, and if he was not mindful of that he would not get another chance to be, and he wouldn't deserve one.

Instead Gilbert lowered his lips till they found and pressed against hers, with the infinite, tender, courtly care he had long planned and imagined. She stilled beneath him, but his mouth held hers, and he waited. He moved slowly, running his lips over hers, tasting, tugging gently, with love and longing, as his fingers threaded in her hair and his other hand found her waist again and held her lightly, reverently, against him. She was all the shy, soft, beguiling sweetness he had ever dreamed of and more. She was hope and promise. She was light and love. He thought it might nearly end; he knew it was enough and so much more than enough and not nearly, ever, enough, but it was lovely and perfect as it was, under this unexpected apple tree, with only the moon and the sky and the stars to bear witness.

He withdrew his head slowly, but close enough to still stare into those eyes as they fluttered open, and it took them a moment to focus, wonderingly, on his; and it took him a moment more to read the new knowledge in them, and what it meant.

"Oh, _Gil…"_ she breathed.

That broke him, then, for she could not know how his name on her lips sounded to him and what it signified; he only knew of the feeling that overtook him; the rush of connection, of her body calling to him as her soul had long ago, and she must know he was hers, that he had given himself over to her utterly, and he made good on the silent promise by finding her lips again, this time with purpose and passion and new resolution.

He teased her lips apart; he felt her shudder and then sink into him; he deepened the kiss and wrapped his strong arms around her. The stars were literally before his eyes as their tongues grazed and there was a soft moan from her throat… or from his… he couldn't tell and it didn't matter. They were joined together in this blaze of sensation and he was being consumed by it and by her, by the response he felt from her. _Oh, God…_ _passion, passion, passion like an incessant, beating drum reverberating through him…_ He gave it even as he felt it from her and later his mother's words would ring prophetically in his ears, but for now there was only this feeling, this joining and this exchange… and if it didn't stop now there would be nothing for it but to just drift down into the cold grass with her, under the tree, and let the fire take them.

He pulled himself away, barely, and their gasping breaths sounded very loud in the stillness. She turned from him slightly to lean her forehead against the trunk, perhaps seeking coolness to help expunge the heat. Gilbert for his part felt unable to deal with anything but his own wild wonder at what had just occurred. He felt scattered in a million pieces and the bits were being blown about as he grabbed at them and tried to reassemble himself.

"Anne… Anne… are you OK?"

If he had scared her, if it had been too much, too fast, too soon, he really thought he would bash his head against the tree till he lost consciousness.

She did not reply.

" _Anne?"_

She seemed to nod, and gave muffled answer. "OK."

"You're OK?"

Firmer, this time. "OK."

He risked leaning in, close to her ear.

"Anne, darling, I'm sorry if I…"

She raised her head abruptly, and turned to him slowly, her expression newly amazed.

"Wh… what did you say?"

 _What had he said?_ He could hardly remember; his mind was still righting itself.

"Ah… I said…" _Oh._ He swallowed. " _Darling_."

She stared at him with wide eyes.

Oh, God. She hated it. The endearment had slipped from his lips as naturally as her name. It felt perfect and wonderful to him, because that's what she was to him, but frustratingly there were no understandings between them yet, to sanction the term; there still hadn't been a question asked, let alone an answer.

But then… as he stared down at her, agonised, she looked back up to him, and it didn't _seem_ like she hated it. The blush found her anew, and her smile was embarrassed and beautiful and a little pleased.

 _God in all his Heaven, if she continued to look at him like that he really could not be held responsible anymore._

"Anne…" he sighed, withdrawing his hands from her with great difficulty. "I hope this all hasn't been… too much."

"Too much?" her voice was a little strangled.

He swallowed. "I hope _I_ haven't been… too much."

He couldn't quite fathom the look she gave him.

"I'm afraid…" she bit her bottom lip, "I am afraid you are _always…_ _too much_."

"Anne?"

"The Gilbert Blythe effect. You _have_ to know that, Gilbert. The effect you have on girls, on any female under eighty you've ever met."

"Anne, what are you _talking_ about?"

She gave her own embarrassed sigh. "Too _smart_. Too _handsome_. Too _friendly_. Too _generous_. Too _much."_

"Well, hold on a minute…" he gave a wolf's smile. " _Now_ you're piquing my interest."

" _Gil_ bert…"

"Too smart?" he raised a dark brow.

"I forgot too _conceited_."

"Too handsome?" he grinned.

"Too _cocky._ "

"Too friendly?" he leaned in very close.

Her intake of breath was sharp.

"Too _good_ at this…" her eyes left his to find the ground.

"Sorry?" he was not playing games anymore; what was she talking about? _Again?_

"You probably make every girl feel this way, Gilbert… To be …. carried off as if they…" she faltered. "It's not the same for you… you're probably well used to it by now…"

She leaned against the tree, as if for support. She refused to look at him.

He paused to go over her words for several moments. He finally understood her; the realisation was horrendous.

He let out such a groan of frustration she actually jumped at it, and he turned from her, raking his hand through his hair and stalking away and around her in a demented half circle.

"Anne… oh, _Anne…_ if you only knew _half_ of what I'm thinking and feeling right now you would know not to even _voice_ such thoughts! I'm so shattered and overwhelmed I can hardly speak to you. You look at me and I _melt._ I touch you and I _burn._ You could ask me to do _anything_ and I'd do it for you. For your information I have _never_ felt this way before, ever, and sometimes I don't even like it, because I can hardly control who I _am_ with you anymore!"

She had raised her head to look at him, incredulous.

" _Gil_ …" she breathed, stricken.

He paused. "And just so as you know, Anne, I don't think I will cope too well if you keep calling me that."

Her smile was unsure but also the tiniest bit teasing, and her eyes lit brightly as she looked at him.

"You mean, call you by your _name?"_

He growled at her, but his grin came out to play as well. "You know what I mean."

He chuckled darkly, trying to compose himself as he continued to pace.

"I actually have no idea what you mean."

"When you call me _Gil._ You've never called me that before."

She frowned at him. "But lots of girls call you that! I've heard Diana occasionally, and Ruby, and Pris. And Maisie called you Gil all the time!"

"Well, yes, I _hated_ it from her, actually. Only my closest friends call me Gil."

"And _I_ haven't the right?" her tone was aghast.

He turned back to her, exasperated.

"Anne, when _you_ call me Gil, you make it an endearment. You make it special. I didn't know it would drive me crazy like this. But Anne…" the catch came to his throat, "you _say_ Gil but I _hear_ darling."

They stared at one another for several beats. The cold of the night was still creeping around them but it felt mighty warm from where he was standing.

Anne looked at him very directly.

"Gil," she murmured.

He cocked his head, his dark brows drawn together. "Anne…" he warned.

"Gil…" she repeated, breathy yet determined.

The grin stole across his features; she hid her own knowing smile.

He took a step towards her.

"Say it again…" he challenged, and took two more steps to reach her, his hands coming either side of her, bracing himself against the tree.

He stared deeply into her eyes. Her face was so flushed it was fevered. Her eyes he was sure would be very green if he was able to note their color properly. But at this stage he was rather more focussed on her lips.

Her breaths came fast and sharp, as did his own ragged ones. Later he would learn, painfully, what it was to hold back; to rein in; to suppress; to deny. But for this moment, as she teased him with a new awareness; a coy coquette still shy and tremulous despite her own invitation to him, he could only think to answer her siren's call as fervently and faithfully as he could.

She barely breached the first letter before he dived on her mouth. Several minutes would pass before either of them resurfaced.

* * *

Only a short time later they sprinted back, through the trees, across the lawn, in the doors, grinning all the while, fingers touching, looks knowing and tender, fed by a new, almost feverish awareness and excitement. It had to be midnight, now; all was as quiet as they had left it. The world had revolved silently on; even if their own world had changed so irrefutably it was hardly recognisable anymore.

"I must look in on Katherine before I go to bed," Anne whispered up to him. "I rushed away from her before."

"Of course," he nodded. "But will you spare a thought for looking in on _me_ as well, all alone in my little broom cupboard?" his slow grin was rather too pleased with itself, and he revelled in the new boldness that their ardent escapade had freed from him. "I might need a goodnight kiss, you know."

He loved the wry look she gave him.

Goodness, but he loved _her._ _He loved her._ He had wanted to say it out in the dark just now, beneath the trees; to declare it before all the heavens. He perhaps had breathed it as he kissed her. But he was aware that too much had already passed between them; he didn't want this added declaration to be a weight for her, an additional thing for her to contemplate and to carry; he wanted it to be a promise; an exaltation; a gift.

She knew he wished more than anything to court her. She knew he wanted to ask her. He would earn the right to do so, and his declaration would then come as fittingly and naturally as the feel of her in his arms.

"I thought you didn't permit kissing in said broom cupboards, Mr Blythe?" her question brought him back down from his hovering thoughts amongst those skies to very solid ground.

" _That_ ," he smiled, reaching for her hand and kissing the palm again, "was a first-time kiss concern, Miss Shirley. All other kisses are – "

There was a loud scream, interrupting their interlude and immediately shattering the calm and quiet around them. Anne and he shared a look of frightened incredulity before running across the floor and through the wooden doors. They burst into the private rooms even as lamps were flooding a different kind of light into the area and the sound of other footsteps echoed around them. At Katherine's doorway there was already a fair bit of commotion and the sound of somebody howling. Gilbert pushed past with Anne behind him. The howling was Miss Baker, who was hapless as ever, standing in the corner of the room, burying her shocked face in her hands. Matron was supporting Katherine who had obviously just brought up any scrap of food and drink she had managed in the past twenty four hours. The vomit stained the white sheets yellow-brown as an old bruise. And added to that was a new hue… the shocking, spotted scarlet of Katherine Brooke's blood.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

" _ **Anne had hurried home to the east gable and opened it eagerly – to find a typewritten copy of some college society report – 'only this and nothing more'". Anne of the Island**_ **(Ch. 28)**

*Charlotte Bronte _Jane Eyre_ (1847) (Ch. 23)


	15. Chapter 15 Hours of Storm and Darkness

_I cannot thank enough all the interest, little prompts - and readers, still! - who have kept faith in this story through the very, very long wait for this chapter. I did not initially mean it to be so long, but interruptions, distractions, and several changes in narrative direction have all played their part._

 _Pleased be assured that things will start progressing more quickly from now - on all fronts!_

 _With thanks and best wishes, Joanne x_

* * *

 **Chapter Fifteen**

 **Hours of Storm and Darkness**

* * *

Gilbert's first thought, perhaps stupidly, was to seek Anne, to shield her from the terrible, wrenching, wretched sight in front of them; he should have known better that she would not turn from this – she was already across the room, flinging herself at the bed, gasping Katherine's name.

He paused briefly in his own awful, agonised indecision; whenever he saw blood retched up from shredded lungs he was a boy once more, helpless and horrified, watching his father try to stem the sight of it with hankerchiefs and later towels that would never know their original color again.

He blinked. _No._ It wasn't Dad. This wasn't the same. Katherine Brooke did _not_ have consumption.

But God help him if he knew what she _did_ have.

His beleaguered brain kicked into some sort of gear. He was vaguely aware that he might be the only male on the entire premises, save for some gardener or groundsman; he felt the sudden vulnerability of all these women and girls alone, faced with a crisis in the dead of night, and for the first time understood a little of the Matron's mistrust and wariness of him. Running in parallel however was a new feeling of responsibility; he _must_ do _something_ here, even if it wasn't exactly his place to do so. And even if he hardly knew exactly _what._

"Miss Baker," he hurried over to the young woman, only about his own age, who was still sobbing loudly and distractingly. His voice searched for and found the quiet authority he had had to employ during raucous Student Council meetings, and that he had first had to draw upon as teacher in Avonlea, facing up against innumerable, upstart Boulters and Pyes. "You must calm yourself now. Miss Brooke will need clean sheets and cool washcloths. Do you think you could manage to find some?"

The tearstained girl looked at him in confusion, but then something in her altered.

"Ah… ah… yes?"

"Good," he nodded, offering a reassuring smile, and he saw her limp out the door, checking his slight amazement at her unquestioning acceptance to do as he had bid.

He turned back to the two women struggling with a now flailing Katherine Brooke on the bed.

"Gilbert!" Anne met his eyes, pleading and panicked.

"Here now, Miss Brooke," he soothed firmly. "Matron, I think we need to turn Miss Brooke on her side to ensure there is nothing obstructing her airway. Here…" he directed Anne and Matron Burgess to turn the tall, slight woman in the way Uncle Dave had long ago taught him before they had left for Alberta, lest he be on his own with his father choking on his own blood. "Make sure her head is to the side as well, and that her nose and mouth are clear."

Katherine Brooke did indeed dislodge a final, tiny morsel of food, and seemed to slump in immediate relief, as Gilbert felt himself do.

As Anne, after a moment, sat Katherine in the chair Gilbert surveyed the sheets the Matron began to remove for washing. Spots of blood, he observed, but no other matter or membranes, as far as he could detect. He fought to marshal his thoughts as he poured some water, crouching to offer it to Anne who then put it gently to Katherine's lips. He had been concentrating on something internal – a tumour, a growth or abscess, an ulcer – and hadn't paid much attention to respiratory ailments, as Katherine didn't have an excessive cough or wheeze or anything to suggest an underlying difficulty. _But what if…?_ His brows drew together… _What if blood from her lungs is not a pointer to her illness, but another_ symptom _of it?_

She'd had influenza. Quite severely. Anne had visited her here over new year, a little over a month ago; she'd had to take a leave of absence after having the illness for _months,_ so perhaps had been affected as far back as November. He should imagine the winters were harsher here along the coast; additionally, November was a demanding time for anyone in education, as he and Anne could attest to; Katherine Brooke was used to working long hours and perhaps not attending to her health as she should. She was a woman only in her mid to late twenties; her age, disposition and perhaps necessity would make her work through any illness; till she turned around and realised, astonished, that it had taken hold of her.

 _When is influenza not influenza?_ he puzzled as he watched Anne tending to Katherine, who had been feeling chilled when he had talked to her not an hour and a half ago but now looked as at the onset of a new fever, her face flushed unhealthily, her distinctive dark brows drawn as if to ward off pain. Her fever had obviously spiked so dangerously two nights ago the Matron and the Director were afraid she would not last the morrow, and had telegrammed Anne. But then the fever had broken, and she had enjoyed a period of time when it looked like her condition would improve; but what if this was not a turning of the corner? What if it had merely been a stay of execution? A terrible pattern of its own?

He took a despairing sigh.

"Mr Blythe…" Matron intoned warningly, indicating the fresh nightgown she held in her hands.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Excuse me." Decency had been forgotten in his distraction; Anne's look to him was gentle.

He made his way towards the door.

"Anne?" an unknown force made him beckon her over.

"Gilbert?" she queried, coming towards him. Something in his heart closed over. Would he ever hear _Gil_ from her again?

He swallowed carefully. "When you are helping Miss Brooke to redress… can you… can you check for any marks?"

"Any _marks_?"

He flushed. "I don't even know what to tell you, Anne. Just things I cannot see. Just any…"

"Do you mean sores or… bruises? Rashes?"

"Yes! Yes, exactly!"

Goodness, but she would make an excellent nurse. She who talked through Shakespeare and poetry… was also quick and brave and a little unflinching. Perhaps her life so far had made her that way… He had an image flash before him, vibrant and vivid… of he, as doctor, working in some unknown practice or hospital, and of Anne nursing beside him, caring and calm. It was so powerful and persuasive he had to rapidly blink it away.

 _Do not put your own dreams and projections onto her…_ Katherine Brooke reminded him in his head, reproachfully.

"I will look out for anything, Gilbert," Anne was saying firmly, and her unquestioning faith in him to even accept his crazy, unschooled request encouraged as powerful a response in him as her kisses had done.

He nodded and ducked out, before Matron Burgess, who was glaring fiercely now, had him personally escorted from the premises.

Anne appeared at the doorway of the broom cupboard non-room some twenty minutes later.

Gilbert had been buried in _The Physician's Hand-book_ ; he looked up with a start to see her, and they were both silent for a moment; his tired eyes still drank her in as hers seemed to do the same, and the tiny blushing smile of acknowledgement she gave was an echo of so much that had happened outside only an hour or so ago.

"Ah… Gil…bert…" she hesitated, and he smiled at the almost-reference.

Maybe kissing her – kissing _each other_ – almost senseless before had given him some additional insight into her character and her hesitancy now.

"Anne…" he stood.

"I just… I mean… we haven't had a chance to…"

"I _know,_ Anne. Please don't worry. It's a beautiful book – the most beautiful book _ever_ – but we've just had to put it on the shelf for now. _Very_ temporarily. I promise you we will get it down again when the time is right."

Her grey eyes were large on his. She smiled at his metaphor.

"Thank you, Gilbert. Thank you… I just didn't want you to think that the _book_ … that it didn't mean… anything to me. It means… it means… a great deal."

"And to _me_ , Anne," he had walked the two steps to be standing before her, and his eyes seemed to burn in their sockets. "More than anything."

He could kiss her, easily. He could bend down and kiss her and blunt some of the pain and frustration and uncertainty that hovered around and outside of them. He longed to, with every part of him. But it wasn't what she needed from him right now, even if she would almost certainly, he felt, accept and embrace the kiss and respond to it in kind.

"So…" he cleared his throat. "How's Miss Brooke?"

"Resting. She took some water. She is quite warm again though… however she has plenty of cool washcloths courtesy of Miss Baker," she gave gentle smile.

"Ah, yes, Miss Baker."

"I… I had Matron check with me with regard to any, ah, rashes and such, Gilbert. There were none that we could see. We were very thorough – or as thorough as Katherine let us be."

He couldn't stop his frown. "Oh, well, that is a very _good_ thing, then, I believe…."

"You thought there might be?"

He sighed, and passed a hand through his curls. "I don't know what I'm doing here, as you know, Anne. But I thought there might be. It would at least signify something as to why she is still sick in this manner. But as I say…" he shrugged.

"Well, there was only her foot, but that was properly bandaged several days ago."

Gilbert's brows flew upwards. "Her _foot_?"

"Yes – apparently she got out of bed the first time, before her bad fever when they telegrammed. She had injured her ankle when she was unsteady and the doctor had already been to bandage it and then they brought him out again for her fever… I hear he was _most_ displeased to be called out again," she rolled her eyes.

"Is it still bandaged now?" he tried to remember seeing anything, but Katherine's nightdress had obscured her lower half, and he wasn't in the habit of staring at a lady's legs if he could possibly help it.

"Of course. The doctor said to rest it. It still is troubling her a little, but it was a very bad sprain I'm told."

"Would she let me see it?"

Anne was taken aback by his changed tone.

"You mean… _now_?"

"Yes."

"Oh, Gilbert…" Anne hesitated. "We've just got her settled again… Matron has finally gone to bed; she's exhausted and in very ill humour. Even Miss Baker is sitting with her for an hour or so and has calmed herself…"

"I'd be quick, Anne. I wouldn't ask unnecessarily."

"I know that…" she looked up at him, agonised. "It's just that it's bandaged very carefully and…"

"I'm OK with bandages. Uncle Dave – the doctor uncle – taught me."

Anne chewed pensively on her lower lip.

"Would we need to fetch Matron again?"

"No, I shouldn't think so, if you and Miss Baker are both there. And if Miss Brooke agrees."

They stole back across the floor and through the mahogany doors into the private area beyond. Gilbert led the way till they paused again outside Katherine Brooke's door.

He waited whilst Anne went inside.

A few moments later she beckoned him back in. Katherine Brooke did not look well. Her breathing was laboured and a fine sheen of sweat drenched her flushed brow.

"Miss Brooke…" he ventured, after nodding to the perpetually flummoxed Miss Baker. "Excuse the impertinence of yet another intrusion, particularly after the night you have already had, but may I…"

"You may indeed examine my ankle, Mr Blythe," Katherine Brooke offered through gritted teeth. "It throbs so I care not at the moment if you desire to cut it off."

Gilbert could not help his askance look to Anne, before bending down to Katherine Brooke, who had been moved across from the bed to the chair once more, breathing through her pain the whole while.

"You are in some discomfort there, Miss Brooke," he murmured, mostly to stop his long fingers from shaking as he attempted to remove the bandage with less deftness than he had hoped. He unravelled it with trepidation. And what he saw made him pause, hazel eyes wide.

Katherine Brooke's foot was deep red, tracing the transition to purple.

Gilbert looked from the foot to its owner to Anne to the foot again.

"Miss Brooke – you say you _sprained_ it?" he puzzled.

"Sprained… tripped on…" Katherine Brooke breathed. "Semantics, Mr… Blythe."

"May I?" he indicated, and then raised Katherine Brooke's leg slightly, to look all about the ankle and the foot itself, including between toes and the padding in the instep and underneath to the heel and the arch. He thought perhaps there had to be a nick in the skin or a graze or sore somewhere to account for this level of infection, but his examination was interrupted.

" _Mr Blythe!_ ' came Matron's unmistakeable voice through the door. " _What_ on the Lord's good _earth_ is the _meaning_ of _this_?"

He could not account for the Matron coming back in this instant, except her senses must prickle whenever he ventured outside his broom cupboard.

He relinquished Katherine Brooke's ankle as carefully as possible, and straightened with determination.

"I was following a suspicion just now, Matron Burgess. And you can see quite clearly for yourself that Miss Brooke needs a doctor again. _Urgently._ "

Matron looked to Katherine Brooke's ankle, as if it personally offended her.

"A sore ankle, Mr Blythe? That the doctor should come out at two o'clock in the _morning_ to attend to a sore ankle that he has already seen to and bandaged?"

"Matron…." Anne attempted to interrupt.

"Miss Shirley!" Matron's look and tone was sharp. "There has been nothing from yourself and Mr Blythe but unending interruptions since the moment of your arrival!"

"An arrival that _you_ precipitated, Matron!" Anne pleaded. "Miss Katherine is still very sick – one does not vomit for nothing! She has a fever creeping up again and if its anything like you described the first time then she _does_ need a doctor immediately!"

Matron Burgess looked from he to Anne in exasperation.

"If we _were_ to fetch the doctor…" her countenance darkened to that of a thundercloud during an especially bad storm.

"Matron Burgess, Ma'am," Gilbert interrupted, "I urge you to do so. More than that, I urge you to fetch a doctor who has not seen Miss Brooke recently. I have it on _her_ good authority that the doctor who took clearly inefficient care of her ankle here considers her to be some sort of _malingerer_ inventing illnesses for her own edification!"

"Mr Blythe! Of all the notions!" Matron blustered. "Not fetch the local doctor around the corner? Am I to suppose another doctor will fall from the sky as apples from an apple tree?"

At the mention of apple trees both he and Anne blushed a charmingly incriminating shade of crimson, which was thankfully overlooked amidst the general argument taking place.

"Would… would you fetch the doctor who knows Miss Brooke from his service to the High School?" a small, tentative voice drifted upwards. The three of them turned to survey Miss Baker, who had moved to sit by a very white faced Katherine Brooke, a hand on her arm in a show of solidarity.

Anne nodded emphatically. "That's a very good idea! Doctor McCubbin! He knows all of us from the High School!"

"Well done, Miss Baker!" he found himself adding, to the surprised delight of the frizzy haired young lady.

"And _how_ are we to get a message to the doctor the _other_ side of the town, even if he was to come? I have no magical errand boy at my disposal at this hour, Mr Blythe!"

Gilbert moved closer to the woman whom he was sure was good hearted, well beneath the surface of her institutionalised officiousness.

"Matron Burgess," he lowered his tone to be less confrontational, and his eyes were trained on her in earnest sincerity. "Surely we can do better for Miss Brooke, who is an esteemed member of staff at the High School, not to mention a longstanding friend of this very institution." _And I won't dare even think about her importance to Anne._ "Let me borrow the buggy, and with directions I will fetch the doctor myself."

The older woman wavered only slightly.

"Very well, then," she responded tightly, as if she wanted it known she was not pleased with this capitulation.

With a relieved smile, Anne fetched some paper in order to write directions; she would go with him in an instant, he knew, if not for the worry of leaving Katherine, the wrath of Matron Burgess at the impropriety, or the inconvenience of three of them sharing the bench seat once the doctor had hopefully joined them. He waited for her as she came back and pressed the paper to him, squeezing his hand.

"Thank you, Gilbert," she whispered, her eyes never leaving his.

His smile tried not to waver.

He turned back to the two seated ladies.

"I will be back as soon as I can, Miss Brooke."

"Thank you, Mr… Blythe…" Katherine Brooke answered, eyes glazed. "Be sure… to… not take… the ….scenic… route." She tried her best admonishment.

Gilbert smiled gamely at her, though his stomach twisted at her clear difficulty and agitation.

"I'll surely keep that in mind."

With a final glance at Anne, he followed Matron out, to fetch his jacket, gloves, scarf, coat, hat and pocketbook on the way to the small stables.

"Here, Mr Blythe," the Matron thrust something into his hand as he set off. "Our director, Mrs Llewelyn's card. For the doctor."

He tipped his hat and travelled down the long lane, stopping at the lamppost on the corner for light, unfolding Anne's directions.

At the bottom she had written

" _I would not wish_

 _Any companion in the world but you."_ *

He smiled to himself; it was Shakespeare, of course, though he was too weary to try to place it.

Instead, he tucked it into his breast pocket, close to his heart as she was, and set off.

* * *

Anne could well have just instructed him to follow the scent of the sea; as he came closer to the bustling town itself he also came closer to the harbour, which was in eerie early morning darkness, in the nevertime gulf between when late night workers stopped and early morning workers began. He wished for it to be the dreamy darkness they had shared under an apple tree, but the air here was biting and frigid, and he was glad to skirt the harbour and head upwards to the school.

It was definitely the monied part of town, with the change in architecture reminiscent of Kingsport, and the large, stately school Anne herself had taught at an elegant and impressive edifice. He would have liked to have paused to contemplate the image of her here, but it was certainly not the time, in more ways than one, and he pressed the horse on down another slope to a cluster of smart houses.

He arrived at the street, his fingers fumbling with the paper he again checked, and then he tethered the horse and stood before the door. How many had come before him, with prayers for a miracle the medic would tote in his doctor's bag? Would people knock on his own door one day with the same unguarded hope?

His large, long fingered hand rapped on the door resolutely.

* * *

It hadn't been as difficult to sway the surprisingly genial gentleman now sitting beside him in the buggy as Gilbert had feared, though the business card the Matron had given him certainly helped. Dr McCubbin made pleasant small talk with him as they made their way back from whence he had come, the good doctor not in the slightest way ruffled by the unusual circumstances or indeed the unfriendly hour.

"You're certainly a long way from Kingsport, young man," Doctor McCubbin offered.

"That I am, Sir," Gilbert agreed. "It was a sudden and rather unexpected journey for me."

"To the Girl's Home? Yes, I'm sure that it was," the doctor grinned unrepentantly. "And you know Miss Shirley, then?"

"Yes, Sir. We met in class at Redmond this past year. She is a very… good friend."

Gilbert didn't care to see his companion's amused countenance at this offering.

"Fine young lady, Miss Shirley. A great loss to that school back there. Though I dare say she's better off where she is. She enjoying Redmond, then?"

"Yes, very much, Sir. She's a natural scholar and appears to be enjoying the challenges of college immensely."

"Well, good for her. And what are _you_ studying, lad? Is it all torturous poetry and Kings of England?"

Gilbert let out a laugh. "Some of it, Sir. But I am mostly majoring in the sciences."

" _Really?"_ the doctor gave an interested sidelong glance. "To what end?"

"Well, er…" Gilbert faltered, glancing back at him, unaccountably coloring in the darkness.

The doctor's chuckle was soft and knowing. "Goodness, don't tell me, lad!" He nodded to the doctor's bag at his feet. "You know that this is what you're in for, don't you? Endlessly roused from your bed at all hours?"

Gilbert smiled and helplessly shrugged his shoulders.

There was a thoughtful pause.

"Your name's _Blythe_ , did you say?"

"Yes, Sir. Gilbert Blythe, of Avonlea, near to Carmody."

The look to him was searching.

"Not related to a Doctor _David_ Blythe, are you? Out in a place by Four Winds… er, Glen St Something?"

Now it was Gilbert's turn to chuckle in amazement.

"I am pleased to say that I _am,_ Sir! You are referring there to my Great Uncle Dave, my father's uncle, of Glen St Mary."

"Well, well…" Dr McCubbin was highly amused by the coincidence. "How is the old devil? He and I trained together, you know. Haven't seen him for a decade, I should think."

"That's amazing, Sir!" Gilbert grinned, adding slyly, "and the _old devil_ is doing very well."

Dr McCubbin chuckled heartily, and engaged in some enthusiastic anedotes regarding the erstwhile incumbent doctor of Glen St Mary and greater surrounds during their long ago training and residency.

"Most blundering attempts at diagnosis you ever saw," the doctor remembered fondly. "And you may tell him so when you next see him. Hiding out in his little village by the sea – he was going to go to Toronto or Montreal with me, you know."

"Surgery?" Gilbert asked, fascinated.

Dr McCubbin waved a dismissive hand.

"Never went through with it! Landed on his feet with his little posting and off he went. Mind you, look at me, not much better. I only lasted a few years in Toronto myself. Furious pace; unrelenting. I wasn't ambitious enough for all that city bowing and scraping nonsense. My mother was from here in Summerside, and she wasn't well, so I came back for her. Got a position that included the High School. Met a girl there who was teaching. Never looked back." He gave Gilbert a wink. "She was half Pringle, you know," he offered proudly. "Not that that will mean anything to you."

Gilbert couldn't help smiling.

"And you've liked it here, Sir? In general practice?"

"That I have, son. Enough variety to stave off boredom, not _quite_ as pestered by the locals as your uncle would be. Helps to have a decent, understanding woman to come home to, mind. Keep that thought in your head when the time comes for you, lad."

Gilbert muzzled his sheepish smile.

"So…" Dr McCubbin nodded after a few minutes, his tone darkening. "You'd better fill me in on our beleaguered Miss Brooke."

"Sir?"

"Well, you've observed her, young Blythe. No doubt you have your own thoughts and theories on what's ailing her. And then there's this nasty foot business, too."

"Sir, I wouldn't begin to presume…."

"Nonsense! It's just two men talking; no harm done. And Lord knows you couldn't do any worse in your layman's assessment than Dave Blythe in the day, that's for sure."

* * *

Dr McCubbin swung into action with a quiet confidence, striding through the still-darkened building and into the private confines of the lower guest room. There was much curtseying and due deference shown that Gilbert noted with interest, including from Mrs Llewelyn, who had been regally roused from her slumber; he had seen it with Uncle Dave as well, and particularly with the staff out in Alberta, and had mused on the transition in status a medical course helped to fashion; making over mortals into gods. He had no notion of wanting the distinction for himself, but the inherent and unquestioning _trust_ placed in the older man; the conferring of some sacred knowledge through books and instruction and practice and learned skills… he wondered if he would ever possess the inner resolution to accept this as his own, this faith a person had in another, even as he felt it in himself as the doctor examined Miss Brooke, whilst it seemed the entire adult population of the Home hovered outside in the passageway.

Doctor McCubbin reemerged, wiping the hands he had washed with one of Miss Baker's clean washcloths, his bushy grey brows taking in the assembled party; he and Anne by one side of the door, the Matron and Mrs Llewelyn on the other, and Miss Baker in the middle, as if she didn't quite know with whom to align herself.

"Miss Brooke has a very bad fever which is climbing again, as Mr Blythe on the way here informed me also happened several nights ago. We must tackle it with resolution; it can't be allowed to get away from us. I will need a constant supply of cold water, both for drinking and for sponge baths, with appropriate cloths and towels."

The Matron nodded, prepared to take charge of this necessity.

"Miss Brooke also has an extremely bad infection in her foot, and I believe we can thank Mr Blythe here for its discovery. Some small wound or other was not attended to or known when it was bandaged and it has been given free rein to fester… for nigh on a week, it would seem… and this is causing difficulties. I must bathe the wound in special lime solution to cleanse it, and then try to bleed the infection from it… only time will tell if this infection is related to Miss Brooke's temperature and vomiting… Her system has already been weakened by her influenza and so has found it difficult to fight this new affront." He paused, looking again at each individual carefully. "I cannot tell you but the situation is quite serious. You did well to summon me. I will be staying for a good while yet. I'm afraid you must prepare yourselves for a long day ahead."

This news caused suitably grave concern and worried murmurings, before the assorted residents and visitors were tasked with their various roles. Matron was to fetch additional bowls, cloths, towels and water; Miss Baker was to wake Cook early and organise a steady supply of tea and refreshments, including an immediate cup for the good doctor; Mrs Llewelyn went to wake the two younger matrons upstairs, and then her assistant Miss Wethers, to inform of the suspension of teaching classes today and of general circumstances. Anne and Gilbert were to stay close to the doctor and fetch him anything that had been forgotten, and for Anne to tend Miss Brooke for the time being under the doctor's instruction.

"Miss Shirley, so good to see you again," the older man smiled kindly.

"And _you,_ Doctor. Thank you so much for coming!"

"Well, I can't see as I had very much choice," Dr McCubbin chuckled, glancing at Gilbert. "I have a feeling Mr Blythe was prepared to be most insistent."

Anne paused to smile at him, before turning back to the doctor.

"What can I do, Dr McCubbin?" she asked, in a wavering tone that made Gilbert's heart wrench.

"Sit with her. Keep her well hydrated. Plenty of liquids are needed to combat the infection as well as to help her blood flow when it comes to the blood letting."

"Thank you, Doctor. Should I…?"

"By all means," he nodded, and they both watched Anne slip back into the room.

Dr McCubbin looked to Gilbert, his expression clouded.

"Doctor?" he himself now queried. "Do you… do you think the infection has spread?"

The older man's mouth pursed, and he flicked a glance at the partially opened guest room door. "Take a walk with me, son."

Gilbert accompanied the doctor along the passageway and out the mahogany doors, ironically coming to a stop beside him by the wide windows leading to outside.

"Right, now," the doctor continued, "what we are going to now discuss is in the strictest confidence."

"Yes, of course, Sir."

"I must admit that I am most worried about the very possibility you have mentioned."

Gilbert felt himself quail. "Blood poisoning, Sir?"

"Indeed. Or septicaemia, in medical circles."

"Sir, is that likely?"

"It is unfortunately likely, yes. Miss Brooke has already had a previous illness that gives her a susceptibility, the influenza, which I myself treated her for back… well, before Christmas, at any rate. It had laid her low, but she had worked through it, because, well, I believe you may have come to know Miss Brooke's personality." He gave a wry smile, which Gilbert returned.

"I have indeed, Sir."

"So well may you believe she worked until she dropped, quite literally. Fainted dead away in class. They made her take a Leave of Absence, then, in order to get over it. By that time she was laid _very_ low. We did the best we could for her at the High School, but then Christmas came, and I saw her settled back here. I had the chance to visit her once, and then I took my own leave to visit with my children, and I heard from the local doctor here that she was improving, so I left it there. I'm rather sorry I did, because she has obviously tried to do too much, too soon.. got up and injured her ankle, and even a small nick, with her compromised system…"

"The infection took hold," Gilbert frowned.

The doctor sighed. "Indeed."

"The fevers… and the alternate chills…?" Gilbert ventured.

"Yes, they could all be signs of early septicaemia. Then again, they could all be carried over from the influenza. The two have very similar symptoms. Difficult to make a diagnosis. That's why we often get to patients too late."

Something in Gilbert's expression made the doctor pause.

"Look, young Blythe, there is still hope yet. Nothing is conclusive. I grant you, it's all a frightening proposition. The infection takes hold, wreaks havoc on the body, and it goes into shock. All the vital organs begin to shut down. If septicaemia turns to sepsis it's a truly terrible business. Terrible. Young new mothers with puerperal fever… amputations in hospitals gone wrong… Luckily I don't see it as often as some. Time is of real importance here. The longer this goes, the better."

Gilbert's brow furrowed, thinking on this.

"The longer the better, because sepsis would turn things quickly?"

"More quickly than you can imagine, son. Two to three days, mostly. Now how long _has_ it been for Miss Brooke? What day is it now?" Dr McCubbin shook his head in admonishment to himself.

"I hardly know, Doctor…" Gilbert replied blearily, running a hand through his hair. "It's Wednesday… no, I beg your pardon, it's _Thursday_ morning."

Dr McCubbin consulted a handsome gold pocketwatch, squinting in the gloom. "Half past four…" He retrieved his little notebook from his jacket pocket to make some quick calculations.

"Now, let's see… You received the telegram in Kingsport sometime very late Tuesday afternoon, but it was sent early that morning… meaning Miss Brooke was dangerously ill with her first fever over Monday night… she recovers by late Tuesday evening when you see her here… is fairly untroubled but weak through Wednesday… then last night – or early this morning Thursday – she turns again, and we repeat the process. Only…" he paused, frowning excessively, "that the state of the infection in her foot has worsened."

There were several beats of silence.

"What can I do, doctor?" Gilbert implored, a conscious echo of Anne only minutes ago.

Doctor McCubbin gave him a long look.

"We will know which way the wind is blowing today. Stay close to that young lady of yours. See that she gets some rest in a moment – and you yourself besides - or you'll be no good to anyone. Miss Brooke will be exhausted after the blood letting at any rate. I can always wake you… if it is needed."

He let this information sink in.

"And I find I am never averse to prayer, either."

Gilbert gave a watery smile.

"Buck up, son." He clapped him on the shoulder. "You worked on an educated hunch… found the source of infection… came and sought me. You've given Miss Brooke a fighting chance. Don't forget it."

He smiled slightly, nodded, and strode back to where his patient waited.

Gilbert looked out of the wide glass doors, watching the first fingers of dawn stretch themselves out across the sky. Katherine Brooke had to live. She _had_ to. She was the only person Anne had left. Her _family._

He would like to position himself in that role as well – as her family, as her love, as her _everything_ \- but he had the sneaking fear that no matter how he tried, and no matter how much he desired it, that he alone, for Anne, would not quite be enough.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

" _ **Anne read hers that bitter night, as she kept her agonised vigil through the hours of storm and darkness." Anne of the Island**_ Ch. 40

*from William Shakespeare _The Tempest_ (Act 3 Sc 1)


	16. Chapter 16 The Sorrows God Sent Us

**Chapter Sixteen**

 **The Sorrows God Sent Us**

* * *

Dearest Katherine

I am writing this letter to you in my head. I compose most things in my head and in times past you did like to say how I lived too much inside my head – or that my head was in the clouds – but I believe that you will forgive me it now. I cannot talk with you at the moment. You are not to be reached; you are on a fierce tide of fever and I try to swim towards you but the waves push me back. I cannot even read to you because it agitates you and I get in the way of kind Dr McCubbin and his own efforts to swim out to you from the distant shore. So I sit here, Katherine, as wonderfully still as you always instructed me to, and I hold your hot hand seasoned with my tears, and instead of my silent scream you have my silent words.

Please, Katherine. I beg you. Please don't leave me.

You will hate the begging, I know. It is undignified and melodramatic. Well I am afraid you will just have to put up with it. I beg you not to leave. I beg you to remember it is not your time… that it is so very far from your time… that this entire illness is ridiculous and you will acknowledge the ridiculousness of it and open up your amber eyes and look at me imperiously. I still recall the first time you did thus – do you remember? I crept towards your majestic presence and the poor shadow serf I was refused to bow, though she had been browbeaten and cowed enough to ensure submission for a lifetime. And you recognised something in her… or perhaps you just liked to be challenged? Later I would suspect that you saw a little of yourself in me. I have always held onto that.

I'm sorry… my tangents… and so, we debated Tennyson. I hated 'The May Queen' and could hardly tell you why, except that it was so unrelentingly cruel and bleak and accepting of Death as some sort of benevolent punishment for unmitigated pride… I have come to love that old Poet Laureate but I don't think I will ever make peace with that girl skipping to her end. It was certainly not 'The Lady of Shalott'. But then again so few things are. You decried my romanticism even as you overlooked my own pride to see something in me… a tiny flicker of a flame; a spark not quite yet extinguished. And you fanned and stocked the flame till it smoked and then burned again… How can I thank you for something we have hardly dared put into words? How can I thank you for knowing me when I still scarcely knew myself?

 _'…thanks for… each silent token,_

 _That teaches me, when seeming most alone,_

 _Friends are around us, though no word be spoken.'_ *

Well, I should recite to you… even in my head. Something rhythmic yet unsentimental. Will more Longfellow do? I can hardly think… the lines blur and merge into one another… Not Keats for you, certainly… do you know he might have been a doctor? Forgive me… I am _'interrupting with intrusive talk.'_ ** I thought that was your own phrase for years, you know. It so suited you, and it was so very true of me.

I should have written more once I arrived at Redmond. I'm so sorry, Katherine.

It was so surprisingly difficult to leave here, but once I did, I was so caught up; ensnared; enraptured. It is what you knew would come to pass, is it not? That the world would rush to greet me. And it is an amazing, thrilling new world, Katherine, and so too the people in it. Enthusiastic and generous and clever and kind. I toiled here in the coal mines with you, and now I am the canary singing. But how can I be properly free knowing that you are still caged? How can I in all conscience dream bigger for myself as you urged, when your own dreams have been forced so small?

It's not fair, Katherine! It's not fair!

Gilbert Blythe is still here with us. With me. I will not leave you until you are well again and he will not leave me. So, there it is. If either of us are to graduate our first year then you must fully recover. There is our challenge to you right there. Be it on your conscience, Katherine; if you do not wish us both cluttering up the halls of Summerside High School because we have been unceremoniously relieved of our positions at Redmond you had best rally yourself immediately.

I wonder what you think of Mr Blythe. That he is handsome and charming I knew would not sway you, and I warned him as much. I confess that we have had our challenges, he and I, as I alluded to over new year, and I rather looked forward to you bringing him down a peg or two. Despite my best efforts I am afraid I have not been too capable of doing so. And yet I… I confess… I am losing the will to try. He is… I find him to be… oh, Katherine, I hardly know! I can hardly tell you what has come to pass between us, and I fear you will be disappointed in me anyway. That you should think I was so completely swayed and so easily won. That the very first flattering word… the very first mildly admiring glance… and I should forget myself and my goals completely. But it is not like that between us. He is not like that. I perhaps believed him to be, once, but that was before I knew him, and before he began to know me. And now you know him too – though you have all along, haven't you? The boy who topped the entrance exam to Queen's. We first out of all those others. Was that not Providence at work? I am not sorry, now, that I did not meet him then. I would not have fared well, I suspect… I would not have been ready to encounter him. Some days I scarcely believe I am readier now. All I can tell you, and you have seen some of it yourself, is that in all sincerity he has been a little marvellous whilst he has been here. We both need to thank him unreservedly.

I should perhaps leave off the poetry and turn to prose… the only novel I have with me is 'Jane Eyre', of course. Our talisman, Katherine. I confess I find myself going over those lines in my head – they demand to be remembered, and felt, and applied. You might think you are Charlotte Bronte but you have a little Emily in you… _You are 'no coward soul',_ *** Katherine Brooke. I know you can fight this. I know you must fight this. I cannot do without you. I _can_ not and _will_ not. We two are _'inextricably knotted to a similar string'._ **** Please, Katherine, don't make me bleed internally… or I shall bleed and bleed till there is nothing of me left.

Katherine! You who has fought all her life, for every speck of an opportunity, don't give up now! Fight for yourself! Please, Katherine, please!

' _I stand amid the roar_

 _Of a surf-tormented shore,_

 _And I hold within my hand_

 _Grains of the golden sand –_

 _How few! And yet they creep_

 _Through my fingers to the deep,_

 _While I weep – while I weep!_

 _O God! Can I not grasp_

 _Them with a tighter clasp?_

 _O God! Can I not save_

 _One from the pitiless wave?'_ ***

Don't drown, Katherine! Please fight! Please swim!

I am on the shore, waiting. Waving to you. Praying that you see me.

Love always

Anne

* * *

Dear Gilbert

I hesitate so… I almost say 'Dearest'. Dearest GiIbert. Dearest…Gil. It seems a lifetime ago when I breathed your name under the tree, and so much is changed that I… I sometimes feel that I can barely look at you without betraying myself utterly. I feel that I may never know what it is to be normal around you again.

How good it was for you to come here with me. How wholly and wonderfully good. I fear that is something not many people recognise in you, couched as it is in other things that so readily distract… your joking manner, your easy smile, your blinding intelligence, your affable nature, your physical presence. I admit I was distracted by these other qualities at first. I may also add your damnable smugness, your annoying ego, your coterie of unending friends, your overload of responsibilities and commitments, your… well… your impossibly wide shoulders and your laughing hazel eyes and your elegant hands and really, must you add your wayward curls to the equation as well? When I said you were too much, Gilbert, I meant that in every possible respect… that how could I, ' _poor, obscure, plain and little'_ ****** ever think you would look at me without some sly ulterior motive made at my expense?

And now… and now… every time I close my eyes I am back in your arms. So much so that I never want to open them again.

You say that you cannot control who you are with me anymore. Well, I am laid bare by you, Gilbert. And I will tell you a part of that frightens the wits out of me.

This was not the course I had chartered for myself. I was away to Redmond to make something of myself, to stand independent and apart, not to fall in with the crowd. I will own that I had grown a little like Katherine… in emulating her achievements and in craving her approval I had perhaps adopted some of her prickly reserve for my own. I was afraid for you to see me as myself. I don't… I don't know if you quite still do, even now. I am afraid you have some sort of pedestal ready for me, and your long fingered hand is extended to help me up to it; the audacious girl who dared challenge you and play with you at your own game. This terrifies me, Gilbert, because then I cannot fail to disappoint you, for I… I am not… I am not a perfect creature. And I know you would not have yourself thought that way, either. I admit that your vulnerability and your softness hidden beneath your resolute shell of wry teasing and unflappable confidence… well, I am undone by this. You possibly think me perfect in my imperfections, Gilbert, but if you really, truly knew those imperfections… the chapters I still keep to myself… I don't know if you would look upon me with that same wondering hazel gaze. And now that I have felt your eyes on me how can I go back to a time when no one saw me at all?

Well, one person saw me. Even before Katherine. He saw me in all my imperfect grace, Gilbert, and he accepted me, and he risked everything for me, though he was just a boy and I was just a girl and we were just children, clutching one another, terrified and traumatised, shivering together in the darkness. I cannot forget him. If you allude to me as a puzzle then he is my missing piece, and perhaps I am, even after all this time, still his. If he were a stranger it would be easier – you could consign him to my past. But he is part of your past too, Gilbert, and of your present, and I am so sorry but I can't move forward… I can't move at all… till I resolve the part of myself that is bound to him. I wanted so much to quote some other Shakespeare to you – perhaps one of our sonnets – and not call you my 'companion', but perhaps _'Lord of my love'._ ******* How I blush to even think it, to even say it to myself. You have my heart, Gilbert, but he still holds a piece of it too.

Please keep faith with me, that there will be a time when things will be made right again. When we may take our book down off the shelf and read it together, and laugh – and cry – over it, and rejoice in it too.

With all my… fondness… and gratitude… and…

…and love

Anne

* * *

Dear Tom,

Here it is, me again, writing yet another imaginary epistle to you. I wonder how many over the years? How is it that the imaginary letters are so much easier than the actual ones?

The hardest letter I have ever written was to you before Christmas, Tom. The real you, live and grown and safe in Avonlea, and knowing Diana and Fred and Ruby and Jane and Charlie and… and Gilbert. I still find it slightly incomprehensible. Not that you should know them, naturally, but that I should meet them, and become friendly with them myself, and that they should lead me back to you.

I promised I would find you again, Tom. I know it took longer than it should have, and was not in the way that I imagined. It must have been such a shock to you, Diana coming up to you like that. She was very sorry for it, but could see no other way. Was it too much of a shock? Was it unwelcome news after all this time? Did I take too long?

I never meant to take so long. In the early days I was so demented with the thought of seeing you again that I made myself quite sick with it. I was desperate to hear anything of you. I have that letter, Tom, still… the first, and the only. I dare say there were others, but Mrs Cadbury kept them from me. Did you ever receive the one I left with Martha? Did you ever even know I had left the Asylum? I was sent to Summerside, Tom… I went to your Island. Is that not the most hideously 'tragical' thing you ever heard?

And now I am back here again… I can hardly tell you how it tears me to pieces, to be on the same general patch of earth as you, to have us both on this island fringed by sea. I am back only for the second time since I left, but this is the first time where… where… we know that the other is in the world again. I hear such amazing reports of you from Diana, Tom… that you are tall and strong and gentle and shy and… and handsome. I don't doubt any of them. Perhaps one day I will be able to see for myself. As for me… I hazard I am not much changed, unfortunately. I don't know what you would make of me now. I tried to hold on to the part of me that you found special… I don't know if I succeeded… because I also brought along the other parts of me, the other memories… they are fixed, immovable. I cannot budge them. But to try to forget them is to try to erase you, and I could never countenance that.

So I am here, in Summerside, and my dear friend and teacher and guide is sick. She is so sick, Tom. We fear so greatly for her. When I am not holding her hand as she burns with fever, as the doctor tries to bleed the infection out of her, I am wandering the halls, half crazed with worry and lack of sleep, and all I can think is that the smell here is the same. The smell here of the Home is the same as at the asylum… of antiseptic and longing and fear… and it is like I am back there with you, or that you are here with me… that I am cast back to you, again and again, on the tide. Will that always be the way of us, do you think?

I cannot lose her, Tom. I lost you. I lost my parents. I lose everyone. That great unseen hand comes and plucks them from my grasp. And you have lost so much as well. Why is it that the ones who have lost already are still plundered for what precious little remains? I know we neither of us are wholly committed to the idea of a generous, benevolent God… not when we have seen what we have seen… I know I should not have such shocking, blasphemous thoughts; not when I am praying and pleading to this same Holy Father in the same breath.

We must wait for this endless day to end. I don't know what lies on the other side of it. I am trying to make things right with you… with others. Please write to me Tom, and let me know that I am forgiven for waiting, for being too scared, for being so slow to give you the assurance I am seeking myself from you now. I fear after being so faithful to the memory of you for so long that I have now betrayed it; that I have betrayed you. And if that is the case I might just as well crawl into bed with Katherine right now, and embrace her as Jane Eyre did Helen, and let the fever take both of us away.

Sorry, Tom. I do not mean that.

I am not making sense now. I am too anxious and afraid.

I will wait, on the other side of this desperate day, for my friend Katherine. For my other friend… and for you.

Yours ever,

Anne

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

" _ **Do you remember what Dr Davis said last Sunday evening - that the sorrows God sent us brought comfort and strength with them, while the sorrows we brought on ourselves, through folly or wickedness, were by far the hardest to bear?" Anne of the Island**_ **(Ch. 6)**

*from ' _The Seaside and the Fireside: Dedication'_ by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

** _'The Seaside and the Fireside: Dedication'_

***from _'No Coward Soul is Mine'_ by Emily Bronte

**** _Jane Eyre_ by Charlotte Bronte (Ch.23)

*****from _'A Dream Within a Dream'_ by Edgar Allen Poe

****** _Jane Eyre_ by Charlotte Bronte (Ch. 23)

******* _Sonnet 26_ by William Shakespeare


	17. Chapter 17 Drenched in Tears and Tragedy

_What a long time to sustain the suspense!_

 _I promise it wasn't deliberate, and I apologise profusely for the slow updates these last few months, and assure you we have turned a corner... of sorts!_

 _This chapter is dedicated to all the wonderful readers out there who have given this fledgling writer the audience she never thought she'd have; and also to the guests who are so kind to always leave little notes of encouragement, and who invariably enquire as to an update to spur me on as I am trying to haul another chapter over the line :)_

* * *

 **Chapter Seventeen**

 **Drenched in Tears and Tragedy**

* * *

Dr Martin McCubbin's favourite time was the twilight; as the day tipped its' hat to the evening, and the shadows stretched themselves out across the remaining beams of light to gently envelop and enfold them into night. It was the time heralding the ending of work and the call of home and hearth and the companionship and comfort to be found there. It was the time of quiet reflection on what had gone before and quiet resolution to continue on the next day.

It was not, ordinarily, the time for miracles.

He now observed the three individuals, quiet and still in the new peace that had descended on the room after the battlefront it had served as all day. These three had become especially bound to one another; comrades-in-arms. He didn't quite feel the General amongst them, but it would be a unique and never forgotten moment to now rally these particular troops.

He took a moment with Katherine Brooke, to observe her, calm and still in her bed; very warm, certainly, and weak as a kitten. But alive. Her fever broken, and the infection, which had remained thankfully and mercifully localised, dissipating along with the violent color of her foot, slowly fading from purple to pink before his eyes. He couldn't quite account for it; this barely hoped for change in fortune, except that medicine was sometimes the realm of both Science and God, and who was he to question which entity had been on duty today?

He now bypassed the sleeping red haired girl, pale and exhausted and spent, curled up in the chair she had barely left all day, except to pace the halls and come back to drop to her knees by the bed. He shuffled further over to the lean, long limbed, tousle-haired young man, deputised in his occasional absences when other duties had called him away; someone to do the Blythe name proud, with a certain look of his uncle about him, and a measure of old Dave's doggedness too.

This is whom he nudged awake now, and those hazel eyes blinked, stared and then started; he was instantly at attention; it was always a good sign when the fog of incomprehension cleared quickly; a medic always needed to call on his wits at a moment's notice.

"Sir! I'm sorry! I must have drifted off… how is…?" he struggled to make his body work in tandem with his mind, sitting awkwardly but slipping down in the chair in his haste.

"See for yourself, young Blythe."

The young man regarded him questioningly, askance, and then leapt up, striding to the bed but first throwing the girl in the chair a look of naked worry and longing. He paused by the bed, almost comically pulling up short, and stared, slightly open mouthed and disbelieving.

"What are your observations, Blythe?" the doctor gently demanded.

"Her color!" Gilbert blurted. "Her fever…?"

"Passed."

There was an audible gulp. "And the infection?"

"Clearing. It did not spread."

Gilbert's expression was incredulous, and he looked to the doctor and back again to Katherine Brooke.

"How…?" he gasped.

The older man chuckled tiredly. "I hardly know. And I might save those musings for later. Or I just might leave well enough alone regarding this one."

"So… she's out of danger?"

"She is. I can't see anything on the horizon now. Though her convalescence will be longer this time, and her foot will always be a trouble to her. She'll likely need a cane."

Gilbert nodded, dumbfounded.

"So… I thought you might like to be the one to pass on the fortunate news?" he glanced back meaningfully to the girl, and then again to the boy, and that bright Blythe grin was one he well remembered.

* * *

Gilbert knew that no one would now extract Anne from the bedside of the recovering Katherine Brooke until such time as the patient herself demanded their immediate and non negotiable return to Kingsport.

"Anne Shirley," Katherine wheezed, some time on the Saturday afternoon, a clear day and a half after their interminable vigil during which the dark haired woman's life had hung in the balance, "I did not help get you all the way to Redmond College just so that you could forfeit your place to read me bedtime stories."

"Would you prefer Dickens instead?" Anne smiled happily, her relief in the hopeful outcome no one dared believe possible so evident in her newly radiant features.

"I'd prefer you to be consulting the train timetable," came the exasperated reply.

"Katherine…" Anne pleaded. "You gave us the fright of our lives! Please don't chase us away before we have been able to enjoy your recovery for ourselves."

"You could have left this morning," Katherine remonstrated. "You could be back in Kingsport _now._ "

"Kingsport can wait another day."

"The Redmond gossip won't."

At this Anne turned crimson, and stood to fuss with the makeshift library she had procured for Katherine, on a little shelf just along from her bedside table.

"The letters we left will cover the reason for our absence…" she murmured evasively.

"You know that is not exactly the issue here."

When no reply was forthcoming, Katherine pressed on.

"And where is your Mr Blythe today?"

"He is hardly _my_ Mr Blythe, Katherine!" Anne tittered nervously, in a tone that was astonishingly false to the ears of both of them. "And at any rate, he took up Dr McCubbin's kind offer to accompany him on his calls today. He will return with him when the doctor comes to check on you later."

"Well, at least he gets _something_ out of his time here…" there was the very faintest acknowledgement of color in Katherine's once more pale cheeks. "Mr Blythe has been, well, very _good._ "

Anne, still avoiding Katherine's eyes, bit her lip down on her grin. "I am very glad you think so."

"And you know what _he_ has been thinking?" Katherine persisted. "Before my fever, he was talking to me of his… intentions."

" _Courting_ ," Anne replied more shortly than she meant to. "Yes, I know."

There was a long silence, and Anne was unable, for once, to fill it.

" _And…?_ " Katherine's tone was clearly aggrieved, and she struggled to raise herself up against her pillows. "Anne Shirley, am I raised from the dead to have exhausting, evasive discussions about - "

" _Katherine!_ For mercy's sake please don't talk that way!"

"Right, then. Let's talk plainly. That suits _me._ Has he asked you?"

"I hardly think that was a conversation we were to take time for when everyone was afraid for your life!"

"I don't believe myself in mortal peril _now,_ and I do thank the Lord for it. _And_ Doctor McCubbin. And so I repeat my question."

The two bright spots on Anne's cheeks burned, and her voice was low. "Of course he has not asked yet. It was not the time for him to ask."

"But he will. And then?"

Anne swallowed with difficulty. "I've gone to Redmond for an education, Katherine. To make something of myself. It's what we both worked towards… this is something that I… that I didn't dare even consider… It just seems a weakness, a betrayal to be thinking upon anything that… that…"

"Weak, _how?_ Betraying to _whom? Really,_ Anne, you are the most frustrating girl! I do not intend to live my life through you, Anne Shirley, so you can please stop that nonsensical notion."

"Katherine…?" Anne's mouth had dropped open, rather comically.

Her expression extracted a slight softening in tone and expression from the figure in the bed.

"Anne… your friendship has been my comfort and your success has been my joy. But your happiness will be something I look forward to most of all. Go forth into the world. Live your own life as I now intend to live mine. Marry your Mr Blythe if you must – though pity _do_ wait until after your degree – and uproot to some tiny little hamlet and a house full of children grabbing at your skirts."

"Katherine! I hardly think that courting Gilbert would lead to such extreme eventualities!"

"Stranger things have happened," Katherine frowned deeply.

There was much introspective silence, during which Anne considered and heartily dismissed such a mystifying notion of her future.

"And what of _you_ , Katherine?" Anne gulped.

"I nearly died. I perhaps must look at starting to _live,_ now," she replied in her husky voice.

"Your uncle? Summerside?"

My uncle has been repaid. I've been saving a little for myself of late. I've been so frugal I hardly know what it's like to spend any money. But I might allow myself the attempt."

"Katherine, that's marvellous! You deserve to have some nice new things… some lovely new dresses and - "

"Dresses? Who said anything about dresses? I am going to resign my post at Summerside to travel."

"Resign? Travel? Travel _where_?"

"I've an idea for Europe. Perhaps Italy."

" _Italy?_ Are you _sure_ you're feeling quite well, Katherine?"

"You look scandalised, Anne! Italy was good enough for your Mr Keats."

"Yes, of course, though he happened to _die_ there!"

"Well at least he saw some of it first."

Anne was too overcome to even roll her eyes at this terribly sardonic humour.

"What will I do without you?" her heartfelt query was pathetically plaintive.

"I'm hardly leaping out of my bed yet. But you can start your preparation for our parting by heading back to Kingsport tomorrow morning."

Those stern amber eyes had softened since Anne had first tried not to cower under their resolute glare over seven years before, but they had not lost the determined will that fired them.

"Yes, Miss Brooke," Anne gave a small, wavering smile, blinking back her tears, and leant to kiss her on her wan, cool cheek.

* * *

Gilbert was not sorry to farewell Summerside, to be sure, but the breath he took as the crowded Sunday train chugged out of the station was a little tight, his diaphragm constricting, as he contemplated the extraordinary five nights he had spent there.

He hadn't come for himself; he had come for Anne, and he had stayed for Anne, and he would do it all again in a heartbeat; the broom cupboard and Matron's disapproving look and the helplessness and the panic and the fear. Because he felt he had left Kingsport still a youth, but would arrive back there a man.

It wasn't just that he had kissed Anne under the moon and the stars and felt the final vestiges of his boyhood fall away… it was that he could be there for her in other times as well; to hold her as she sobbed, firstly over her epiphany regarding her growing up at the Home and, even more wrenchingly, as he had awoken her to tell her that Katherine Brooke would live; it was in dealing with an entire set of people who had no idea and no care that he was Gilbert Blythe, President of Freshman Year, Gold Medallist at Queen's, and being humbled by it and not minding, for once, his pride taking a battering; it was in being gifted further pieces of the beautiful puzzle that was Anne Shirley and having them entrusted to his safekeeping; it was in meeting both Katherine Brooke and Dr McCubbin and coming to believe in the magical symbiosis of medicine and faith to create a miracle; and it was, finally, in the realisation that, though he was not a doctor and was a very long way off being one, that he actually _could_ be, in not just belief but in action, too.

He had Dr McCubbin's card in his pocket with an invitation to return to see him at any time, alongside a note from Katherine Brooke; formidable still, though perhaps slightly friendlier given her experiences these past days and his own part in them. He sat next to Anne in the upright seats of the busy carriage, and his mind did cast itself back to their private compartment; as the train rocked he remembered how she had swayed into him, launched as if on a wave. She was all eyes today in her pale face; darkly grey and contemplative, and he knew that if _he_ was in two minds about leaving Summerside, how much more difficult and confusing it must be for her.

Gilbert swallowed down the urge to reach for her fingers and entwine them in his own; to have that tangible physical connection. He had grown a little used to the feel of her and missed it now… the light pressure of her hand on his arm; the heaviness of her head on his shoulder; the wonderfully maddening way her slight body folded into his and nestled there… and he didn't dare linger on other things… her hair like silk; her scent like a garden; her lips warm and welcoming…

 _Right. Get your head in the game, Blythe._

He would ask her to court on Wednesday, after they finally gave their presentation, when the dust had settled. He was aware of the irony of asking after what had passed between them. But he would do it a different way… he would take her to a park. He would find a tree. If she wasn't ready he would woo her and wait until she was.

He knew now more than ever how plans could go awry. But surely it was at least best to have one to start with.

* * *

It seemed a silliness not to catch a cab together from the station back to Redmond; moreover to arrive separately to the same destination would have felt an acknowledgement of some sort of wrong-doing. So Gilbert accompanied Anne to her boarding house and carried her carpet bag to the main door.

They stood in the quiet of the early Sunday afternoon, torn between saying too little and betraying too much.

"I guess tomorrow we might have to catch up our coursework…" Gilbert ventured. "Would you like to meet on Tuesday to go over our sonnets presentation? I admit I can hardly remember a word of it."

"Nor I…" Anne's small smile was wry. "That sounds a good idea."

"And perhaps… an overdue celebration after class on Wednesday?" His smile was gently knowing but also a little unsure and not at all self satisfied, and it was enough for Anne to attempt to fight her blush, and to fail.

Instead she nodded, and fished around in the pocket of her coat, extracting an envelope.

"Ah, Gilbert… I just wanted to give you this. It's a letter… obviously…I wrote it in Summerside… it was something I began in my head, just trying to get down my feelings… that is, my thoughts… ah, although this… this is rather… an abridged version of things." Anne's cheeks were on fire now.

Gilbert took it, closed his long fingers around it, touched his own fingers to hers.

"Thank you, Anne."

"No – thank _you,_ Gilbert."

He placed it very carefully in his jacket pocket, pressing his palm down upon it, and his hazel eyes looked down into hers meaningfully.

Anne cleared her throat.

"Just please… er… don't open it… in company…"

Right, maybe his smile was a _little_ pleased with itself, then.

"On my word."

He took his leave before he did something completely tempting and utterly scandalous, such as take her in his arms and kiss her resoundingly.

* * *

Gilbert found himself back up in his room in his own boarding house shortly thereafter, staring with some dismay and not a little wonderment at the debris of clothes and books that spoke of his hasty retreat so many days ago, everything as undisturbed in its disturbance as he had left it, like a strange fairy tale spell had been cast.

What _wasn't_ in any way imaginary was the mysterious collection of notes and paraphernalia that had been shoved under his door… at first he thought it might have been the work of some obliging and thoughtful classmate, leaving him details of what he'd missed… curiously, no. He leant to pick up the top page, ripped from a notebook and scrawled only that morning.

 _Gilbert –_

 _We cannot fathom what has happened to you._

 _Upon your return please_ _IMMEDIATELY_ _make your way over to my rooms. Don't worry what time it will be._

It is _very_ _urgent!_

 _Fred_

Well, this was most diverting. Fred had made liberal use of capitals, underlining and even an exclamation mark. Which was about as _Fred_ as if he had started to quote Keats.

Gilbert groaned to himself. The very last thing he wanted to do was now to trudge back over the other side of town to Fred's boarding house. But perhaps there was something that had come up. Fred was not one for theatrics, and the unusual tone of urgency made him feel a little uneasy.

He took a despairing look around his room and closed the door on it again.

* * *

"Gilbert!"

"Hello, there, Fred. Where's the fire, then?"

Gilbert was ushered inside Fred's room without ceremony. "Where's Anne?"

"What do you mean, where's Anne? At her boarding house where I dropped her off an hour ago."

Fred was looking a little wild eyed.

"Hey, look," questioned Gilbert. "Is everything all right?"

Fred gave a very short, derisive laugh. "No, not really."

"Fred, I'm a bit worried here. I think you'd better sit down."

That short laugh became an exasperated splutter. "I think it's _you_ who will need a seat, Gil."

"Fred, _what_ are you talking about?"

"You really have no idea, do you? I'm talking about _you._ And _Anne._ Half of Redmond is convinced you've eloped with her."

* * *

 _Sunday 12_ _th_ _February_

 _3pm_

 _Dear Diana,_

 _I am writing this quickly now and will hunt down a messenger boy to get it over to you straight away, though by the time you receive it Fred may well have seen you first._

 _What do you think has happened? Our wanderers have returned!_

 _Well, I can scarcely account for it. Pris and I had come in from lunch and were going through to the common room to decide on further tactics re our aforementioned wanderers when in came Anne through the main door, not exactly bold as brass but definitely with the air of someone who HASN'T been trapped down a rabbit hole these past nearly five days, whilst we all wander round calling her name like we've misplaced out favourite puppy._

 _Pris and I shared a look of staggered incredulity – I really wish you had seen it – and ran over to her but in the same breath our boarding house mistress – well earning her Dragon Lady sobriquet – snatched her up and we ended all ushered together into her back office behind reception where before we could even get a word in, she proceeded to give our poor Miss Shirley such a dressing down that even my own cheeks were flaming at the end of it._

 _Anne made game if teary reply, talking about letters left both here and at Gilbert's boarding house and so forth (really, do you know anything about that? It was the first we'd heard of it) and trying her very best to explain, even as our own interjections in her defence were roundly silenced. Then Anne was dismissed with threats to pass on the matter to the Dean himself, with mutterings of foreboding along the lines of just because she was an orphan with no parents to answer to didn't mean she could take off willy nilly with not a care for her own reputation, let alone that of the boarding house of which she is still tenuous resident, or the esteemed institution that is Redmond College to which she has caused such affront._

 _Well, back up in her room we filled in Anne as best we could, as she whimpered tragically and talked about Katherine Brooke at death's door. They were both at Summerside on your Island, Diana, can you imagine? Gilbert went with her in support. What possessed either of them I cannot think. I've heard of this Katherine Brooke – Anne is very close to her and left me at Bolingbroke over New Year's to visit with her – but what business this woman has almost dying (she didn't) and having us all conversely worried and puzzled half to death is yet to be adequately investigated._

 _So I left Pris with Anne and hurried myself over to Gilbert's boarding house but had no sign of him whatsoever, and can only imagine he has either answered that summons from Fred or else has figured things out for himself and gone straight to the Dean, perhaps throwing himself at his feet begging for clemency._

 _I have come straight back here to dash this off – please forgive my awful penmanship which has nothing on your beautiful script even at its best – and leave you to figure out whether Anne could squeeze into that little attic room of yours you mentioned yesterday. I have a feeling she may have need of it._

 _Fond regards_

 _Phil_

 _PS They didn't elope, as you may have gathered. I am very afraid it would have been better, at this stage, if they had._

* * *

 _Mr Gilbert Blythe_

 _c/o Male Boarding House_

 _Redmond College_

 _Kingsport, Nova Scotia_

 _Saturday 11_ _th_ _February_

 _12.45pm_

 _Dearest Gilbert_

 _Love, please forgive my shaky hand – but I am desperately trying to write this quickly so that it may make the afternoon post to reach you hopefully by this coming Monday, so that you may reply at your earliest opportunity. Firstly, your Dad and I are fine – my worry is not concerning us, but for you. We have your letter with us postmarked last Monday, in which you were well and looking forward to such things as your English presentation… and now I meet Mrs Sloane down the street just now, who had this very morning received a letter from Charlie, and it contains such a perplexing postscript as has me quite flabbergasted, and Mrs Sloane, I am reluctant to say, in a state of delighted disbelief and amazement._

 _Gilbert, Charlie writes that you have been missing from classes for nearly three days – since Wednesday – with not a word to anyone, and that the rumours are now circulating you have ELOPED with a young lady from the college._

 _Darling, I set no store by gossip, particularly gossip out of the mouth of our venerable Mrs Miriam Sloane, but she of course happened to have the letter on her person and happily brandished it about, and I saw Charlie's words for myself. I cannot think that he would fabricate such a thing as you being absent all that time. I only hope that he is as wrong as can be regarding the reason for your possible and unexpected absence._

 _Love, if you are in trouble of some kind, we will not hesitate to help you and will stand by you in all things. I cannot believe that you could have any cause to involve yourself with a young lady in this manner and of which we know nothing, not having even courted anyone to our knowledge (although I have our conversation at Christmas ringing in my ears). Of course, you are a man now, of age, and if this comes to pass as having been the situation we will respect your wishes, though it pains us greatly, and we will sorely lament the educational dreams that will be so much harder for you to now fulfil with, dare I think it, a wife in tow._

 _I haven't yet informed your father of anything, wanting to get pen to paper first, but must do so soon. He would tell me what I am reminding myself of now – we do not have any of the real facts to hand, and conjecture is useless until such time as we do._

 _Please contact us immediately and put our worry to rest!_

 _Your loving Mother x_

* * *

 _Saturday 11_ _th_ _February_

 _1pm_

 _Dear Miss Anne_

 _I do hope you are returned to us soon! We are so worried for you! We are all here to help you if and when you need it, and Gilbert too, so please lean on us. My door is always open._

 _With love_

 _Pris x_

* * *

 _Saturday 11_ _th_ _February_

 _10am_

 _Dear Anne_

 _Darling, WHAT has happened?! And WHERE are you?_

 _We are all going quite round the bend with worry. You are obviously with Gilbert, which is a mild comfort because he would defend you to the death, but I fear that nothing will protect you both from yourselves._

 _Miss Anne – we've started to hear the ugliest conjecture regarding your disappearance, and though Pris and I are busy trying to put out fires on your behalf, and Fred Wright has been an absolute saint, what will silence all the critics now is your lovely presence here again._

 _Any of us will help you if you have need of it, woman to woman – myself and Pris and Diana Barry too. So please call on us to do so. And let us know you are back as soon as you return!_

 _Your loving (and panicked) friend_

 _Phil x_

* * *

 _Mrs M Sloane_

 _Sloane Residence_

 _Avonlea, PEI_

 _Friday 10_ _th_ _February_

 _1pm_

 _Dearest Mother_

 _Thank you so very kindly for my first Care Package for the year which arrived early yesterday morning, and was indeed a welcome sight awaiting me at the reception desk of the boarding house, where I have instructed them to always leave any packages and correspondence, so that I may share receipt of them with my many chums here._

 _I have desperately missed your home cooking since Christmas and am dismayed to report that the meals here persist in their oversalted, unimaginative, and often inedible glory. Likewise my rounds of the various Kingsport tea rooms in order to find a new favourite continue to disappoint._

 _The professors obviously have an unspoken pact to work us to the bone and we are inundated with assignments at every turn. I cannot tell you how often I have stumbled out of bed in the morning, bleary eyed, having been up till 9 and sometimes 10 o'clock at night, plowing through my coursework. Obviously it will all be worth it in the end, to be the first Sloane to be entitled to style himself B.A., but to extend the farming metaphor further, it seems a very hard road to hoe at this stage._

 _At least I will be warmed and comforted by my new scarf, hat and mittens, and though it is indeed a very bright and arresting shade – I perhaps should have looked up vermilion when you asked me – there is no faulting your beautiful workmanship, Mother, and it will be a close enough match, I am sure, for the darker, subtler scarlet of Redmond for one and all to be envious of my college spirit._

 _It will be a relief to see the end of winter, however. My thoughts fly homeward to Easter in Avonlea already._

 _Please pass on my love to Father and all the family,_

 _Your dutiful son,_

 _Charles_

 _PS I perhaps should not speak as yet, but the news here this week has been the bewildering disappearance of Gilbert Blythe, who has not been sighted in class or out of it since Tuesday evening. Just as I was about to seal and send this letter I heard the most extraordinary story – that he perhaps has actually run off to elope with a young lady of his acquaintance – and dare I say it, also mine – as she has not been seen either. Certainly they have been very chummy of late and are forever quoting Shakespeare or some poet to one another in the most tiresome fashion. I had once thought that this young lady might have taken a shine to yours truly but I am most relieved after this news to be still a very eligible bachelor, I can assure you._

* * *

 _Friday 10_ _th_ _February_

 _5_ _p_ _m_

 _Dear Gilbert,_

 _We haven't seen or heard from you for days. Or Anne Shirley. Diana is worried sick and Phil and Pris are not far behind. If you are in trouble of any kind please know that you have friends here who would do anything for you._

 _I can't but think that you have taken off with Anne, though goodness' knows where or why. You normally have a good head on your shoulders but you have been a bit of a blockhead concerning her, and this situation is obviously another excellent example._

 _Please contact me as soon as you come back. Rumours are beginning to swirl and they are not very nice._

 _Best, always_

 _Fred_

* * *

 _Friday 10_ _th_ _February_

 _4pm_

 _Dear Gilbert_

 _We have been friends for a very long time, and I write to you as a friend now, to please let us know as soon as you can that you are well and have arrived back to Kingsport safely._

 _Many have started to suspect that you are with Anne and have not behaved honourably, but I know you and know this could never be the case. However, this secrecy and suspicion still reflects badly on you both, and though Fred, Phil and Priscilla are doing everything they can, what we need most is to have you back here, as your confident presence will be your very best defence._

 _Gilbert, I have only grown to know Anne recently, but she has become a fast friend and I care for her very deeply. I realise that your own feelings for her are very strong – perhaps stronger than you realise or are willing to acknowledge. But please have a care. Anne has not had a simple life and she has encountered many difficulties, and fought them bravely, and she has divulged some of them to me and they would make your heart break. I have seen you with her and you are lovely together but I hate to say that the road for you both would not be a simple one, and although I cannot break her confidence I need to tell you that there are other people in her life, from her past, who are very important to her too (as I KNOW you are to her) and I hope you can be accommodating of them when the time comes, as it will. I am sorry – I do not mean to be so cryptic!_

 _Please contact myself or Fred when you return. He doesn't show it but Fred grows quite demented with worry for you, as do I._

 _Love_

 _Diana_

* * *

 _Friday 10_ _th_ _February_

 _3pm_

 _Dearest Anne_

 _Oh darling! What has happened? We have become aware that neither you nor Gilbert have been in classes or at your rooms for several days. Goodness this has us worried for you. We all hope and pray that you and Gilbert are safe and that you may return to Kingsport soon! I find it hard to imagine what has called away two of Redmond's most dedicated students except it must have been something of grave importance. I hope your leaving has not meant an additional trouble or burden for you – you have had so much to cope with already and I would hate for that to happen to such a sweet soul as yourself!_

 _My only consolation is that it appears that Gilbert is with you – this is a consolation for now, Anne, but I fear it will become a complication for you when you return. Phil has learned – and has passed onto us – some rumours she has gained knowledge of. You certainly don't have to be in Avonlea to find interfering busybodies, obviously. The rumours pain me because I know that Gilbert is not like that, and would have only ever gone with you to help you. Underneath it all he is one of the honourable ones, darling Anne. He is not Fred's friend for nothing._

 _Fred and I are here – we are all here – waiting anxiously for your return and ready to assist you in whatever way you need it. You can come stay with me, Anne, if you would like, and if that is going to be helpful. There is a little room in the attic that – I'm sorry. I am presuming too much! I will wait to see you and you may judge all this for yourself._

 _I must sign off so Fred can make his way over to Redmond to deliver this. Know that we love you and have been thinking constantly of you!_

 _All my love_

 _Your friend_

 _Diana x_

* * *

 _Friday 10_ _th_ _February_

 _3_ _pm_

 _Dear Gilbert_

 _I have discovered the source – or sources – of the rumours circulating against you both._

 _I am afraid some past actions have come back to bite you, in the form of a certain Miss Maisie Monroe and especially her new paramour, Mr George Peters._

 _I rounded on both of them severely today, and might have caused a great and terrible scene, but I did not want to give either of them the satisfaction. I did however loudly and loftily throw about phrases such as 'slander' and 'defamation' (though who knows the difference, honestly?) which had the desired effect of making them both blanche to the roots of their annoyingly perfect flaxen hair and scuttle away rather like the rats they have been imitating._

 _I am afraid, though, Mr Blythe, that the damage has already been done. We are both social creatures, you and I, and rather good at being social creatures, but perhaps my Bolingbroke has better prepared me than your Avonlea for the unfortunate flip side of all this popularity and success – which is a very strong undercurrent of envy and jealousy. It can come from the most unexpected quarter, too (though not wholly unexpected, obviously, in this case). Gilbert, I urge you to guard yourself a little better in the future, or you will always lay yourself open to those who see you as having everything and wanting to take some of that from you. Furthermore, you are not the only one caught in the crossfire – our Miss Shirley is extremely vulnerable to any threats to her reputation, and although I suspect your absence together has been some chivalrous but misguided attempt of yours to safeguard her, you must be mindful of how this looks and will look for her, whatever your good intentions._

 _And if we are all wrong – Diana assures me we are not, but I perhaps must really reserve judgement, having seen you in action not only at the Football Fundraising Dance but more importantly, when you came to me before I left with Anne for Bolingbroke at Christmas – and you HAVE actually done some fool thing such as elope with her, then I wash my hands of you entirely, and you will get no further assistance in Mathematics from me, either._

 _Your friend in good times and in bad,_

 _Phil_

* * *

 _Thursday 9_ _th_ _February_

 _8.30pm_

 _Dear Miss Anne_

 _We haven't seen you for two days! Are you with Gilbert? None of us have any idea what has happened to either of you and it's quite a worry._

 _Phil and I are doing our best to smooth over your absence, but sweetie, we would rather have you both back in the flesh. That way any nasty gossip might be nipped in the bud._

 _Please contact us!_

 _Love_

 _Pris x_

* * *

 _Thursday 9_ _th_ _February_

 _7pm_

 _To: Miss Philippa Gordon_

 _Dear Phil_

 _I am very sorry to say that I went this morning first thing to enquire after Gilbert, but found him not in his rooms and no one appears to know where he is, even the new (and still rather green) night attendant._

 _I have just come from trying again this evening with the same disappointing result._

 _I take it that Anne is likewise still missing and unaccounted for._

 _I know that Gilbert would never put Anne in harm's way – please be rest assured of this. In fact, I am of the opinion that it is the very opposite, and that something unexpected has occurred, and Gilbert has felt duty bound to accompany Anne to wherever she needed to go._

 _This however does not assist them when it comes to how these actions will be perceived. I wonder if you might be aware of any talk that is floating around about them?_

 _In the meantime, I sincerely thank yourself and Pris on Gilbert's behalf for all your care and enquiries about them both._

 _If you have any information please don't hesitate to contact me through Diana._

 _Warm regards_

 _Fred Wright_

* * *

 _Thursday 9_ _th_ _February_

 _6_ _pm_

 _Dear Gilbert_

 _Nearly two entire days and no one has seen you or Anne. Gilbert, what has gone on? Are you with her? It's not like either of you to disappear like this and Pris and I are beginning to worry. I even sent Fred after you this morning via Diana but I haven't heard from him as yet. The poor man has better things to do that wear out his shoe leather back and forth from his own college so please, can you and Anne both make contact with one of us? And where are you both anyway?_

 _Gilbert, I heard a nasty rumour earlier this afternoon. Several people of our mutual acquaintance have told me in no uncertain terms that the word is you have eloped with Anne. I could hardly give any credence to such a stupendously ridiculous idea, excepting that, given your longstanding close friendship with one another and the fact that you are both gone at the same time without explanation… Well, I will do my best to squash such conjecture as best I can, but you have to admit, from an outside perspective, that is an explanation the mind automatically goes to._

 _Please show yourself and prove everyone wrong!_

 _Your friend_

 _Phil_

* * *

 _Thursday 9_ _th_ _February_

 _4_ _.45pm_

 _Dear Diana_

 _I have no idea how Fred's enquiries went this morning but I have rather unfortunate news of my own. Another full day has passed with no sightings of either of our absent friends – not Gilbert in Mathematics, nor Anne with us as she usually is in Art History – and obviously it appears Anne has not arrived on your own doorstep either. I enquired with our boarding house mistress before she left today and she told me in no uncertain terms to mind my own business, though her actual words might have been more along the lines of 'matters regarding the movements of residents were strictly confidential'. So really, no help whatsoever._

 _Therefore, we must face the likelihood that they have departed for somewhere together._

 _This would be a bad enough prospect for we, their close friends, to consider, but I am despairing to tell you that others have evidently been paying attention too. I heard from several people this afternoon that the general belief is that Anne and Gilbert have eloped together. Which is a nasty but unsurprising conclusion to draw. What I find most worrying is not only that people who only know Anne or Gilbert vaguely should say such things, but that they should be so firm in their convictions after only two days. It makes me suspect that someone is spreading such a story deliberately and that they are close enough to one or both of our friends to put some weight behind their allegations._

 _I don't need to tell you how desperate this is all looking for the both of them._

 _I look forward to hearing from you and to ascertaining whether Fred has any news that will help us._

 _Yours truly_

 _Phil_

* * *

 _Thursday 7_ _th_ _February_

 _7.45am_

 _Dear Gilbert_

 _I went round to you before classes this morning but you were not in and no one seems to know where you are. Even Charlie, whom I passed at reception admiring some enormous package or other just arrived from home hadn't seen you. I actually came to enquire as to whether you'd been with Anne, as Priscilla and Phil were at Diana's yesterday and hadn't seen or had word from her all day. Weren't you meant to do that presentation of yours yesterday? And are you STILL with Anne now?!_

 _I couldn't get a sensible word out of your night porter either who was almost finished his shift – not the older gentleman you have told me about but some new young fellow who hadn't a clue about anything, so I just came up and shoved this under your door myself._

 _Will you contact one of us, Gil? And have Anne Shirley contact Phil or Diana?_

 _Thanks_

 _Fred_

* * *

 _Thursday 7_ _th_ _February_

 _7.30am_

 _Dear Phil_

 _What a worry to not have seen Anne all day yesterday! I agree it does not seem to be like her at all. It was lovely to talk to you and Pris when you both came round yesterday afternoon and I'm only sorry I was late in arriving back and so you had quite a long session with Jane and her wedding plans, of which I am also somewhat unfortunately an expert!_

 _I sent a note over to Fred after you left urging him to check on Gilbert this morning before first classes start – I know he will get a message to me upon his return._

 _I certainly hope all is well with Anne – perhaps she took sick yesterday. Or else was with Gilbert for the day? I hope he will have some answers for us._

 _Very best wishes_

 _Diana_

* * *

 _Wednesday 6_ _th_ _February_

 _7.15am_

 _Dear Anne_

 _What do you know, lovely? We won debating last night!_

 _I am convinced that my training and two years' experience as a teacher has now been for the sole purpose of enabling me to stare down any opposition. I wish you had been there to share in our triumph but completely understand if you wanted to rest up before your presentation today. So good luck! Though with Gilbert on board you are both sure to triumph yourselves. He's a very impressive speaker - but don't tell him I said so! He is generally pleased enough with himself already._

 _Love_

 _Pris x_

* * *

 _Tuesday 5_ _th_ _February_

 _10.15pm_

 _Dearest Anne_

 _I did not want to disturb you so will shove this note under your door but I just wanted to inform you of the unlikely and rather brilliant news that, despite your own absence, we managed to win debating tonight!_

 _How we achieved this impressive feat, between Pris's giggling and my own frustrating changes mid argument, I cannot tell you. I certainly hope your Ed Sanderson is not of the belief is was his doing alone. He was rather devastated to realise that, although you were sitting this one out due to your English presentation (a circumstance obviously not bothering him) that you had elected not to make up the numbers in the audience either. His poor face fairly fell from this cruel blow to all his hopes to impress you. Beware he doesn't try to regale you with the entire argument on both sides tomorrow in your English class._

 _Though I am certain Gilbert would have something to say about that if Ed tried to. Mr Blythe could hardly sit still in Mathematics yesterday for excitement regarding it all. I believe he also made annoyingly oblique reference to some sort of possible 'celebration' afterwards. Trust Gilbert, really, to be organising to celebrate your successful outcome before you have even attempted the task!_

 _Well, love, if he is confident, and is teamed with you, that is more than enough for me!_

 _Good luck and enjoy!_

 _Love lots_

 _Phil x_

* * *

It took around twenty minutes to thoroughly appraise Gilbert of all the machinations that had taken place whilst he had been away. Fred explained every step in his careful, unhurried and considered manner, with a thankful absence of hyperbole. Gilbert had been leaning on the wall by the window, too agitated to sit, occasionally filling in some information of his own, but at the end of Fred's recount his long, lithe body slid down to an elegant heap on the floor, and there he sat, knees up and head in hands, and moaned mournfully.

" _How_ did this happen?"

Fred, who rather thought he'd just done as good a job as any in explaining that very thing, looked wryly at his friend.

"Gil, you _know_ how this happened. You left Tuesday night with Anne in a tearing hurry and under cover of darkness. No chaperone and no explanations - as far as anyone knew. And then you were in Summerside of all places for _days._ Of course people were going to talk. Regrettably, the story seemed to circulate unusually quickly. I think Phil will have something to say about that. She's been pretty amazing, actually. You and Anne have a real friend there."

"Yes…" Gilbert colored ever-so-slightly. "As we do in _you._ Thank you, Fred, for all your efforts. Truly."

"Well…" Fred smiled sheepishly, sitting himself on the bed. "Don't thank me yet. You still might be thrown out of college, you know." His tone was deliberately bland.

Gilbert sighed excessively. "Mr Fitz has had pneumonia?"

"Apparently. But he should be able to at least say where he put those letters you left with him."

Gilbert's brow darkened. "The letters won't be enough, will they?"

Fred shifted his weight uncomfortably, and the springs on the bed protested. "If it was just _you_ involved, I'd say yes. Particularly if you had a quick word to the Dean. But it's not just about you, is it?"

Gilbert's look was now positively thunderous, and he lifted his head in a very Blythe sort of manner.

"We did _nothing_ wrong, Fred! And I'd do it all again tomorrow, too. I wouldn't have ever left her to face all that alone."

"It sounds like quite an experience."

Gilbert raked his fingers through his hair tiredly. "You have _no_ idea."

Fred felt his mouth twitch. "Well, I'm a courting man now, Gil. Perhaps I have _some_."

Gilbert barked out a laugh, and his hazel eyes lightened.

"There wasn't exactly any mistletoe around, my good fellow."

"When has that ever stopped you?"

Gilbert chuckled, but his expression grew serious. "This is different, Fred. I can't explain it. When I'm with Anne…"

"And here I was thinking they kept you under lock and key at some Girls Home?"

"They _did,_ for the most part. I'm telling you, they had a _fierce_ Matron in attendance. But there was one time… well… Anne and I might have escaped outside during the night…"

"Yes…?" Fred's brows lifted to reach his forehead.

"Well, there was an apple tree, and…"

Fred began to laugh quietly.

"And what's so damned funny about that?"

" _You_ are! You can't have some ordinary romance, can you, Gilbert? There needs to be an apple tree. It needs to feel like your very own Garden of Eden."

Gilbert flushed. "Well, if it _did_ feel that way…" he answered quietly, and his gaze grew thoughtful, "it's only because she made it so."

Fred smiled, and searched his best friend's face for a trace of teasing or irony, and was astonished to find none.

"You're serious, aren't you?" he finally managed.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean… well, you and Anne. You're actually… you're _really_ in love with her."

Gilbert swallowed carefully. "Yes."

Fred seemed to take a moment to process this.

"Well... That's… well, sorry about all this, Gil. This is pretty rotten."

"You're not wrong, Mr Wright," Gilbert tried to put some effort into their old joke. "Look, it will be fine. I will hunt down the missing letters. I will personally meet with the Dean tomorrow and all of my professors – and Anne's too for that matter. I will write to Summerside. We have any number of people who can offer testimonials for us. We even have a doctor who trained with my Uncle Dave, the one out in Four Winds, for goodness' sake. And I will ask Anne to court, finally, and then all the gossips and naysayers can – "

"Whoa, Gil! Courting? You mean _court Anne_?"

"Of course I mean to court Anne, you dolt! I would have asked her a week ago, before all this mess."

"Gilbert, have you not listened to a _single thing_ I've just told you?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You can't court Anne _now_ , Gil! Not for ages, till all this has well and truly blown over. Really, you thought the business after the Football fundraiser was bad? That has nothing on all of this! This has been a delightful little scandal for people to sink their teeth into. The only way forward is to diffuse the scandal. Take the wind right out of it. You stick with your story – which is decent and true – of you doing the gentlemanly thing in accompanying a distraught Anne to see her possibly-dying friend. You spent a few days there, chaperoned within an inch of your lives, the friend recovers, and you come back to Kingsport. That's the only thing that is going to save _either_ of your reputations, frankly. Gil – if you turn around in the next breath and court Anne, they are going to think that was your real mission all along. _Or_ worse. No one will have any interest in the real reason. They might not even _believe_ the real reason. If you… if you want to protect Anne, then, and if you _love_ her, I'm sorry Gil, you've got to make the world believe you actually don't."

Gilbert might have been completely distracted by the confident and commanding monologue Fred had just given – probably the longest chain of sentences he had ever linked together – if not for the horrible sense of the advice contained therein.

Fred watched the slow dawn of miserable comprehension light his friend's handsome features. For the first time in his entire life he was not the least envious of Gilbert Blythe.

* * *

Late that Sunday night, when Pris had left a tray of food by her desk, urging her to eat, and Phil had brought up a kiss from herself and a note from Gilbert, Anne sat uncomprehendingly on the bed of her dorm room, head throbbing, eyes puffy and exhausted, and feeling for all the world she would walk around the college for the conceivable future having become known as The Scarlet Woman of Redmond.

Her fingers faltered at Gilbert's note. He had been drawn into this awful mess because of _her._ Just as he had been teased and tormented over defending her honour at the dance, now he had to face the innuendo and ridicule of having accompanied her to Summerside, and the subsequent slur on his own good name and character. Did she really only bring hurt and shame to the men who grew closest to her?

She took a shuddering breath.

 _Dearest Anne_

 _The moment I left you this afternoon I went back to my room, and there was a note from Fred asking me to see him urgently… I have just come back from meeting with him, and by now I am so sorry to think you have also heard what has transpired while we have been in Summerside, and I am devastated to think this will cause you distress on top of what has already been a stressful and emotional few days._

 _Believe me, Anne, I left my own letters with our night attendant, Mr Fitz, as you saw yourself. It unfortunately transpires that he took very ill later that night and has been bedridden with pneumonia, and the letters have been misplaced. I am about to search them out myself and then I will go with them to see the Dean first thing tomorrow morning and I will begin to straighten out this horrible tangle…_

 _Anne, I do not regret for one moment going with you to Summerside. Aside from my time with my father in Alberta, they have become the most important four days and five nights of my life._

 _I will hold our 'book' close to me, Anne. I will safeguard it until we are able to take it down off the shelf._

 _Until then, I sign this as you were so generous and beautiful to sign yours -_

 _All my love_

 _Gilbert_

Anne wiped at her too-ready tears, and then shuffled over to the desk, bypassing the tray and reaching for a collection of other notes and letters. All from her wonderful new friends, even as she was at the bedside of her precious old friend… notes from Phil, and Pris, and Diana… the love and care and concern making the various scripts swim before her eyes. Fred Wright, too, had been a staunch and unwavering support. She was astonished and humbled. She had first left Summerside, and Katherine, feeling all alone in the world… and now it was almost as if the idea of a family was not the fantasy of a broken child, but the reality of the young woman, made proof by the letters, something she could hold and touch.

Here, too, was the second telegram, telling them all was falsely well and not to worry about coming. And if she had received it she would have possibly done as bidden, because that's what she had been trained to do, and they wouldn't have been there – _Gilbert_ wouldn't have been there – and neither would have Dr McCubbin and she would almost certainly be facing a world without Katherine Brooke now. The alternative world in which that occurred was so close it was terrifying; a two-way looking glass.

There was a proper letter, too. Her tired eyes grew wide. Postmarked Avonlea.

She knew any number of people from Avonlea, now. All of them were here in Kingsport with her.

Except one.

Another alternative world bumped against her and threatened to bowl her over. White knuckles clutched the edge of the desk for support. The firm, neat handwriting proclaimed her own name. The reverse side would proclaim the sender.

Family… fantasy… something she could hold and touch.

She turned over the envelope, and stared at the name for a long time.

 _Tom._

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

" _ **They are so drenched in tears and tragedy that they are excruciatingly funny."**_

 _ **Anne of the Island**_ **(Ch. 35)**

I hope that readers will forgive two things; firstly, the time of writing included in the various letters here, which is not at all anyone's usual letter writing convention, but was included for means of clarity, particularly as these letters are in reverse chronological order; and secondly, the extraordinary (in this instance) efficiency of the Canadian Postal Service, for helping to advance matters of plot.


	18. Chapter 18 Old Blossoming Hopes

_Another chapter too long in coming… and thank you to everyone who continues to read this and search for updates… Not to mention my wonderful, faithful reviewers! Not such a long epistle as usual (thank goodness!) but I do hope you all enjoy spending time with an adult Tom at last!_

 _Currently the narrative is into the second term of the first year at Redmond; mid February 1884, but this chapter takes us back to December 31st, 1883; New Year's Eve. It is a mirror for the latter part of Chapter 10: 'Winds of Hope and Memory' which was told from Gilbert's perspective; this counterpoint, naturally, is Tom's._

* * *

 **Chapter Eighteen**

 **Old Blossoming Hopes**

* * *

The last day of the year eighteen hundred and eighty three began the same as any other for Tom Caruthers.

He rose well before dawn, long limbs and lingering dreams slowly unfolding themselves, the narrow bed over the braided rug too small now to properly contain either. He stood and stretched languorously and walked over to the wash basin. His shave was completed in careful, considered strokes; despite the cold and bitter late December morning he never rushed and never nicked himself. Large, strong hands were as steady here as they were in directing the plough, or driving the new, mighty thresher, or gliding his knife across a pristine lump of wood. Everything about Tom Caruthers was mindful and modulated; even his thoughts.

 _Mostly._

He paused today to stare into the glass, not quite with his usual indifference, noting the strong-jawed face, browned in the summer sun but now faded to fair; the aquiline nose and dark sandy brows above pale blue eyes; the hair the color of wheat as it ripened, cut into a shorter, serviceable style that seemed to highlight the corded strength of neck and shoulders. He was past twenty now; boy no longer, and yet this time of year always heralded childish fears and memories long suppressed; the death of his mother… the arrival at the asylum… the meeting of _her._

 _Another year._

" ' _I have finished another year', said God,_

' _In grey, green, white and brown;_

 _I have strewn the leaf upon the sod,_

 _Sealed up the worm within the clod,_

 _And let the last sun down.' "_ *

His gaze flickered across to the new suit, pressed and expectant, hanging outside the wardrobe. Specially made and fitted across wide shoulders, strong torso and the extension of long muscular arms, the trousers accounting for even longer legs sinewy and shapely, the charcoal cloth both practical and hinting at something that was not. Unbeknownst to him, Marilla and Matthew had gifted him a second suit of navy for Christmas, leaving a note with the tailor in Carmody to reuse his measurements, and had added a new shirt, tie and pocket hankerchief into the bargain. He quirked a smile at their endeavours to have him trussed up like a blue-ribboned bull at the county fair.

He wiped at his face, dragged a comb through his hair and pulled on his overalls; his second skin.

Yes, that was more like it.

" _Ah child, thou art but half thy darling mother's…"_ **

He wondered if either of them would recognise him now; his mother… _or_ Anne.

The thought gave him a little pang; was he really so very changed? There was enough of the pale, stricken boy who had washed up at Green Gables, as if flotsam on the tide, still lingering in his low moments; his hard-won, quiet confidence occasionally dipping to pool at his feet. When despite the love and care and kindness; the safety and warmth of new family and surroundings; the purpose and pride of his life on the farm, there was the whisper on the wind, the echo in his ear, the pummel of his pulse…

 _Her._

" _You did not come,_

 _And marching Time drew on, and wore me numb…_

 _Grieved I, when, as the hope-hour stroked its' sum,_

 _You did not come."_ ***

Tom's sigh was of despair released; working itself up from the bottomless depths. He moved over to the window, leaning his long body against the frame, looking beyond the bare branches of the cherry tree to the sweep of fields and the dawn-streaked sky. Somewhere she must be waking soon to the same wan winter sun under the same canopy of clouds. She would be grown as well, of course, though he could hardly believe it; eighteen? Nineteen? The years for him flowed into one another but the image of her was frozen as if trapped beneath ice. What of the girl remained in the young woman? All he saw in his mind's eye was hair and eyes and arch smile and armfuls of books. Perhaps that was, still, as accurate for her as anything.

He had garnered a modest little library for himself, and wondered if that would make them both proud. The shelving he had built hardly housed a highfalutin' collection, and he wasn't much for novels, excepting those he had tried to read to his mother when she was sick, and revisited when his skill and his internal fortitude were equal to them. He liked _her_ Dickens well enough, though Shakespeare remained largely incomprehensible, and his favourite – she had drummed into him that he _must_ have one – was still _The Three Musketeers,_ somewhat unsurprisingly.

 _All for one and one for all._

Although it wasn't Dumas who directed his thoughts these days, but the poetry anthology he tried to steadfastly, doggedly work through, gifted him by Miss Stacey when he left school at sixteen to work the farm full time, as Fred Wright had previously done. He had plodded along miserably under Mr Phillips' instruction, slipping and sliding in his studies as one attempting to climb a muddy riverbank, but when the generous, patient, twinkle-eyed new schoolteacher had arrived, he felt instantly inspired, if not always more capable. At school thereafter he kept pace with Fred and in reach of Charlie and Moody; meanwhile Gilbert streaked past them all like a flaming arrow towards some far off, unseen mark. One could hardly begrudge the young Mr Blythe his academic success any more than his popularity with the young ladies or his dashing plays on any patch of grass remade as their rudimentary football field; he wore all his successes so lightly, with the easy charm of d'Artagnan himself.

And now, there was no one to keep pace _with._ Everyone was in Kingsport at the moment, even Fred. They had all been back over Christmas of course, and he had managed to see Fred once, in between his visits to Diana, and hopefully would encounter all of them tonight, but it wasn't the same. Tom had mechanised, modernised and diversified the farm till Green Gables had become one of the most profitable properties in Avonlea, and it had taken every ounce of him over the last four years; all the blood and sweat and toil harnessed towards safeguarding their security. And just as well, too; between Marilla's eyes and Matthew's heart; the arrival of the twins and the newly widowed Rachel Lynde he sometimes felt he was the last bastion; the only thing stopping any of them from tumbling over the cliff and into the abyss.

Could he stop _himself_ from doing so?

 _Seven years._

It was perhaps time enough. ' _World enough and time',_ **** Mr Marvell informed him. His waiting had become a self-styled purgatory; a near-Monastic existence that too closely echoed the memory of Matthew's slow slide to bachelorhood. He knew it worried Marilla, and he could never have that. If he had been a bastion, they had been balm; ballast; bolster… and blessing. If not for them he would have become the whey-faced whipping boy of some short tempered tradesman; or a beleaguered, brutalised factory worker; or one of the very street urchins Rachel had so decried his first full day at Green Gables.

 _That you took your chance… and used it well._

 _To be the man I know you can be._

Her words were with him every day. They were a talisman, but also a torture. He didn't know how much more his heart could stand them. Perhaps, like Matthew's heart, he had a weakness there; a fluttering; a murmur... _she_ was his murmur, his stutter, his pause.

Anne wouldn't want this for him.

She _couldn't_ want this for him.

It would be a new year. Shouldn't that mean something? Letting go of the old? Embracing the new? _Should auld acquaintance be forgot?_

He couldn't forget her, and that was the problem; the question and its answer. His very life here was tied to her, and moving forward meant taking her with him, even as a ghost. If he severed the link for his own sanity he only made her hold stronger, for like Siamese twins ***** in a sideshow exhibit, he couldn't set her adrift without subsequently drowning himself.

Marilla's firm voice called up that breakfast was on the table.

Tom closed the door to the little east gable room and on his betraying thoughts, and hastened downstairs.

* * *

"Will you kiss anyone at midnight, Tom?" Davy questioned that evening, with an enthusiasm more reliant on the intriguing illicitness of such an act than in the thought of the actual kiss itself.

"Davy!" Marilla warned, having to avert attention from her adjustments to Tom's tie in order to glare at the younger boy warningly. "Mind your manners!"

"It's just a question," came mumbled reply. "It _is_ what people do."

"Is it indeed, Davy Keith?" Rachel chuckled from her perch in the rocking chair, interrupting her knitting to wade with enthusiasm into the swelling conversation. "And how would _you_ know, young man?"

Davy gave a determined frown, now caught between defending his newfound knowledge, courtesy of a whispered conversation overheard yesterday between two older girls as they all shuffled, half frozen, out of church, and the clear desire to not incriminate himself for eavesdropping, falsifying information, or both.

Rachel raised imperious eyebrow in response to his silence, and Marilla rolled her eyes and turned her efforts back to Tom's tie.

"There, Tom," she smiled warmly, noting the faint flush to his cheeks, residue of Davy's impertinent conversational gambit not a minute after Tom had come down the stairs. "You'll look as fine as any man there tonight."

Tom gave the half pleased, half embarrassed smile he had given since he was twelve.

"Thank you, Marilla."

" _Fine?"_ interjected Rachel cheerfully, content to continue in her efforts to mortify anyone in proximity. "I daresay he's nigh the catch of the county now, what with the farm doing so well and filling out that new suit so nicely. You can have your showy Gilbert Blythes and such, all flash and flair, but I'll take a decent, hardworking, _modestly_ good looking sort any day."

Rachel Lynde's clear preference for quiet, fair young men named _Thomas_ was both high praise and running joke in their household; Tom, cheeks now fully darkening, had long wondered how easy her acceptance of him, and indeed her loyal and strident support, would have been had his mother decided on _Harry_ after his so-called father instead.

Tom nodded sheepishly at the ladies and backed away to the refuge of the kitchen table, playfully shoving Davy and rolling his own eyes at Dora.

"You _do_ look very handsome, Tom," Dora admitted after careful perusal, hazel eyes lighting with new interest; years from ready, at eight, for the lingering looks of admiration her own blonde beauty would eventually inspire in the little Avonlea schoolhouse, but ready enough to find it for her de facto big brother; whose quiet, steady demeanour called to her own, and whose gentle, unflappable presence was a much-needed contrast to her blood brother's oft- annoying alacrity.

Tom now mumbled himself in reply, making Davy before him look like a soapbox orator.

Marilla expelled an impatient breath, wishing everyone would clearly leave well enough alone; she had a mighty job getting Tom to any social event as it was, and hardly needed the remaining residents of the house undermining her careful preparations and sending him, newly flustered, fleeing back up the stairs.

Her faltering eyes were arrested by the sight of her three charges together; fair good looks so startlingly interchangeable it was no wonder half the village thought they had sprung from the same shared genetic inheritance; Marilla and Matthew Cuthbert were positively overrun, it seemed, with Nordic-looking near relatives shuffling off this mortal coil and leaving them their offspring to raise.

 _And a good thing, too…_ Marilla mused, not for the first time. The boy turned man, resplendent in his new suit in a way that made her _own_ heart stagger, let alone Matthew's, was her pride and her joy in a way that not even the demure docility of Dora or the bounding boisterousness of Davy could yet touch. It pained her sometimes; this _' throb of maternity';_ ***** she thought, at one stage, she would only ever ache for all the dark, curly haired progeny her own youthful, fool stubbornness had long consigned to fantasy. But she had found, to her surprise and delight, that this boy - _her_ boy - sure and steady and gentle and good, had been a tonic in tough times, a tenacious testament to hard work and foresight in others, and a tender reminder, for she and Matthew alike, of the blessings of second chances, and the true gift of family.

Just when it appeared Tom had recovered himself, Rachel took her oar, and stuck it in resolutely.

"To be sure there'll be a few less ladies to go round tonight, Tom, from what I hear. Jane Andrews off to White Sands with her fancy rich beau – we all know what _that_ means –" her delighted smile of conjecture flit over Tom and came to rest on Marilla, and she rocked feverishly in time to the fierce clack of her needles, "and word is about that Diana Barry is to be courting young Fred, if he can get past Mrs Barry, of course."

At times like these Marilla could cheerfully strangle the smugness out of Rachel with one of her own skeins, and her concerned gaze drew back to Tom, now taking a long drink of water, his face admirably impassive. Marilla had heard the news regarding Jane Andrews – impossible to avoid, with the entire Andrews clan strutting around like peacocks over the Christmas period, showcasing plain, balding, genial and rich Harry Inglis about the village and beyond as if promenading with the Prince of Walesdown the streets of fashionable London. She hadn't put much faith in any interest in the smart, kindly - if homely – Andrews' girl - for who on earth would invite the prospect of Mrs Harmon Andrews as a mother-in-law? – but if the news about Diana was true then that was a proper blow. And _Fred Wright?_ A nice, kind and good-hearted young man, to be sure, and a decent friend to Tom over the years, but in all honesty, if the Barrys were content to let one of the true beauties of Avonlea - and a lovely, endearing girl besides - go off with the first swain to ask after her then they didn't deserve someone like… well, like Tom here, for all Fred's new Kingsport business course.

Her darkened look of indignation struck Tom, who tried to hide his smile behind his water glass. If Rachel Lynde had heard about the hopes Fred had divulged to him two days ago, then he was awfully close to making them happen, or at least seeking the opportunity to do so. Tom liked Fred and Diana both and wished them every happiness, if indeed the extraordinary event - and Fred's newfound resolution – came to pass. Marilla wasn't wrong in his admiration for Diana on all levels, but when even Gilbert had stayed mindfully clear of her over the years, then Fred's genuine devotion would surely have to be rewarded eventually.

Marilla busied herself with putting a light supper on the table so that Tom could eat something before the dance. Mostly she was completely preoccupied with whether she and Matthew had provided enough opportunities for him that didn't involve livestock or planting schedules. He had been schooled of course, with mixed results initially and a much better time of it when that charming Miss Stacey had come on the scene for his last year or two. Still, it was a bittersweet moment when he packed away the books and drew on his overalls, not for before-class chores but to face an entire day, and then every day, with the cows and Matthew for company, knowing he was as unlikely to get a decent conversation out of either.

He'd grown tall and strong in the way of a farmer's son and handsome in the way of his mother, with a winning smile and gentle air that were his alone. Thoughtful by nature, careful and considered in his manner and determined to adopt any latest advancement regarding the farm; pouring over advertisements and articles in the newspaper, or going over to see Fred Wright to talk over his ideas for hours whilst the rest of them were studying at Queen's. But he had grown so very like Matthew… not so shy and retiring but less and less likely to put himself forward, and with no other close friend around at the moment to encourage him to do so. Everyone knew the farm would go to him – he had been written into both their wills long ago, with newer provisions made for the twins. Goodness knows they would have no farm and no Matthew into the bargain without Tom; the doctor attending to Matthew recently had been quite clear on that score. Tom was well into courting age now… if Marilla could just see a hint of happiness for him, just a speck of speculation regarding he and a young lady… a young lady calling to his future and _not_ back to his past… well, she could breathe easier.

At least the two new suits had to help.

"Should we take a tray in to Matthew?" Dora asked with her typical consideration.

"No need…" Matthew called softly, emerging from the hall leading off to his bedroom.

There was a flurry of females ready to fuss and fidget over him, but he waved them off politely, sitting himself down and drawing his dressing gown around him.

"Just came out to wish everyone a Happy New Year. In case I don't make it."

"Matthew Cuthbert!" Rachel was indignant.

"I mean … if I get tired before midnight," he chuckled softly.

"Can _we_ stay up till midnight, Marilla?" Davy saw his opening.

"I should think _that_ would put a dampener on your chores in the morning," Marilla offered gruffly, easing into a wry smile.

They ate quietly, mindful not to direct too many questions – or too much food – towards the still-weak Matthew, who had encountered his second turn regarding his heart in as many months, though most of his work these days was limited to milking and feeding the livestock. Even Davy was capable of pitching the hay now.

Marilla, after a while, glanced at the grandfather clock.

"Tom?" she questioned gently, giving him an encouraging smile.

It was time. He took another sip of water, excused himself, kissed the ladies present, gave Matthew a careful hug, saluted Davy and was out the door before he could change his mind.

* * *

Tom slipped in to the church hall just ahead of a pair he recognised as a very well scrubbed Fred handing down Diana from his buggy. He grinned in delight. Well, so it _had_ come to pass.

The cacophony of lights and noise and bodies and music inside was overwhelming, and he blinked, adjusting to the unaccustomed milieu, tracing a path round and behind the security of the seated older couples and parents, nodding or smiling occasionally, desperate to find a quiet corner of safety where he could survey the scene, ' _far from the madding crowd'._ ******* He thought errantly that he needed a window somewhere to lean against, with at least the idea of air and escape it could offer. His throat worked painfully. _She had always found him hiding near a window._

His little corner would do well enough, between the band and the refreshments table, and he manoeuvred himself there, awkwardly crossing long arms before his chest, careful to not rub his suit against the wall.

He watched Diana and Fred greeted by friends and town matriarchs alike; Diana sweetly radiant; Fred grown a foot in pride and happiness already, grinning broadly. After exchanging news and thanks the next song started; a waltz. Fred was as good a dancer as _he_ was- which was to say, not very – but it hardly mattered; when one was not looking at blushing Diana one was looking at Fred looking at Diana, and their audience ceased to care about anyone's dancing.

Something deep-rooted within him took hold at the sight of them, twisting in his stomach… a feeling too generous to be jealousy and not quite sharp enough for envy…

 _Longing._

Tom turned away and shuffled through the throng to the refreshments, whereby he was waylaid by the new schoolteacher, younger than himself, and thereafter by Reverend and Mrs Allen, who were still in raptures over this year's batch of wooden figures he had made for Christmas, as every year, for them to distribute to the children of the poorer local families on their round of visits. He had started to paint them several years ago, which was often more of a challenge than creating them in the first place, and only felt now was he finally getting to grips with that aspect of the process.

The punch was rather pungent, and he wondered if one of the Pyes had succeeded in their interminable quest to fortify it with something other than sugar.

Making his way back to his favoured corner, he saw Diana dancing with Gilbert, their dark heads inclined to one another in earnest conversation, though Gilbert turned in time to spot Tom, giving his characteristic grin, which he returned with a wave. He took his opportunity to venture over to Fred to offer hearty and heartfelt congratulations, and to ask to have these passed on to Diana if he didn't get the opportunity himself. They talked of Fred's course in Kingsport for several moments before they both spotted Mrs Wright bearing down upon them.

"Ah, I might have to wish you a Happy New Year now," Tom offered with his quiet wryness, though there were a ways off the hour approaching, "and take my leave, Mr Wright."

"Be a friend. Take me with you!"

"Not a chance!" Tom gave a rare, full throttle grin.

Tom dodged Mrs Wright and aimed for the only other possible direction; the doors.

He could at least gain some air and some momentary peace if he stood in the little overhang near the entrance; it was a more protected vantage point than his corner, to be certain, and less of a crush. He turned his attention to the dancers again, noting that Diana had left the floor, leaving Ruby engaged with the hapless schoolmaster (who was, it had to be said, far less proficient on the dancefloor than the previous curly-haired incumbent) and he noted Fred still in the throes of some longwinded spiel from his mother. Gilbert was now talking to a young lady – as if that was a surprise – and her back was to Tom but she was tall, slender, and her hair looked copper golden in the light…

His heart hammered queerly. He blinked furiously, his eyes trying to distinguish hues over a distance. It wasn't… it couldn't be… it couldn't possibly be…

His heart constricted; the vital organ squeezed till he felt it had drained itself of every drop of blood, and then, like a fist unclenched, it let go.

 _No._

Not golden copper hair, or red darkened to auburn, but a glossy blonde, and as she turned to survey him, blue eyes gazing intently under a delicate frown of contemplation, he realised she couldn't quite place him. But he remembered her.

 _Carmody._

The schoolmistress over at Carmody; Gilbert's friend. Obviously not there now, for he had driven past twice to be measured for and then collect the very suit he was wearing, and the firm hand ushering the children inside the now strong-shingled building belonged to a no-nonsense brunette, and not the merry maiden he had contemplated from the rooftop for the better part of a weekend two years ago.

He still didn't know how Gilbert had persuaded him; but then again, he always was rather silver-tongued.

 _Miss Grant._

Miss Grant, a chum from Queen's College, had gotten wind of he, Gilbert and Fred struggling with the neglected shingles of the Avonlea schoolhouse the weekend after the first autumn downpour, and had begged them all to perform a similar service over in Carmody. Everyone knew it would take three months before either School Board would come out to examine such rooftops, let alone the wrangling required to provide the funds and the manpower to see to repairs. But three strapping young men in their prime were sure to manage in a day… which became two strapping young men over to Carmody when Fred begged off for something urgent regarding the farm… and then, when Gilbert went for more nails at the local store… just him.

 _Miss Priscilla Grant._

He remembered her, for her bell laugh; her smiling blue eyes; her tone, just this side of teasing; her insistence that if he required lemonade he must come off the actual roof to collect it. And for her kind note of thanks afterwards, and the arch invitation to feel free to come and inspect his handiwork at any time, should he find himself in the general vicinity.

He remembered her, for her looks like his mother's. And her manner like Anne's.

 _Pris._

She was looking across to him with the speculative, wondering curiosity women usually saved for Gilbert. But surely that, like her hair, was likewise a trick of the light. And regardless, he had Diana suddenly making her way towards him; black eyes bright; smile determined; and stepping with a feverish urgency.

"Tom! At last we see you!" she extended both soft, plump hands to clasp his large ones.

"Diana! It's… it's lovely. It's been too long. You look very well this evening. I am so very happy for you, this news of you and Fred."

She paused in saying something else.

"Thank you, Tom. That's so kind of you. Thank you."

Diana released his hands, but only so that she could better clutch her purse and stare at him in tormented fashion.

"You're enjoying Kingsport?" he ventured, seeing over her shoulder how Gilbert and Miss Grant were staring at them curiously, and closer, Fred hovering warily just out of earshot.

He noted her little pained breath at this, and the flush to her cheeks. Diana Barry was not quite acting herself. Had she been felled by the fruit punch?

He may have lifted startled eyes to meet Fred's; a mute communication for assistance, but Diana had her hand on his arm and was directing him further back into the alcove, virtually at the open doors.

"Diana…?"

"Tom, we have made many new, lovely friends in Kingsport," she continued in a galloping gush. "All manner of delightful people! And one whom I have found to be the most delightful of all. I… I… I believe that you… Oh, I'm so sorry to do this to you, Tom! She wanted me to give it to you in person. She wanted to make sure it got to you. But there has been no time and I…" she shook her head, despairingly, and clawed around in her purse, withdrawing a thick envelope. She stretched it out to him.

" _Anne Shirley_ ," Diana continued, and her words began to echo as if shouted on a hillside, whipping round and thrown back to him, reverberating in his ears. "Anne Shirley has been one of our new friends, studying at Redmond College. She didn't know any of us were from Avonlea. Not for the longest time. And then, once she did… she begged me give this to you, Tom, before we all left for Christmas."

" _Anne?"_ Tom rasped, as a dying man, in a way that may have been frightening but for the memory of Anne's anguished howl, which still caused a shiver up Diana's spine when she allowed herself to dwell on it.

"Yes, Tom. She wanted me to say that… she never forgot you."

Diana offered the letter as he clutched it, but neither of them had relinquished their half. Tom's pale blue eyes, stricken to a colorless void, stared into hers, uncomprehendingly.

"Anne?" he repeated, as if unable to articulate anything else.

"Please take it, Tom! It has all her particulars in Kingsport, and mine too, if needed. No one else knows about your… _connection_ … except for me. Take it, with my very best wishes. _And_ hers."

Finally… _finally…_ he took the letter for his own, as if something he could hold and touch, a phantom made finally real.

"Thank you, Diana," his voice was low, and his eyes stared down at the neat, looping script, proclaiming his own name, by her own hand. "I think that I… I'm sorry. I need to go."

Diana nodded dumbly, and watched him turn without ceremony, disappearing through the doors into the darkness.

 _Happy New Year…_ the phrase, made mocking now, died on her lips.

* * *

By the light of the streetlamp illuminating the rows of buggies made haphazard sentinels by the roadside, as well as the fading last quarter moon, he stood in the frigid night, quaking with the cold, trembling to her words. He read the dense pages over and over and over again, mouthing sentences and phrases as if a charm, till his fingers threatened to freeze to the paper, ink adhering to skin as the past bleeding into the present, and the unsteady rhythm of his thawing heart righted itself.

The shaky laugh of relief…and disbelief… slid from him, and he threw back his head to the sky, with no one to witness his tears but the dark heavens.

Inside the hall, Avonlea counted away the old year, and the joyous roar rose up to carry him home.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

 **The chapter title is from** _ **Anne of the Island**_ **(Ch. 37)**

" _ **Only her old friend's flowers seemed to belong to this fruition of old-blossoming hopes which he had once shared."**_

*Thomas Hardy _'New Year's Eve'_

**Hardy _'To an Orphan Child: A Whimsey'_

***Hardy _'A Broken Appointment'_

****Andrew Marvell _'To His Coy Mistress'_

*****Obviously our correct modern term is 'conjoined twins'; I use the older term here not willingly, but for the sake of historical accuracy

****** _Anne of Green Gables_ (Ch. 10)

*******referencing Thomas Hardy's _Far From the Madding Crowd_ ; my tease here, as it will not be published until November 1884, but of course the title itself Hardy drew from the poem _'Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard'_ by Thomas Gray. Oh herald all the Thomas's this week!

 _A further note on Thomas Hardy:_

When I was looking for a poetical 'voice' for Tom, I couldn't go past Hardy's poems, many of which (out of around 1,000!) have a plain-speaking sensibility and love of the land that I thought would call to Tom. It is a pity, therefore, that his first volume of poetry, _Wessex Poems_ , was not published until 1898, when his novels had made him very well known and his themes and the fates of his female characters slightly infamous. However, many of the works in _Wessex Poems_ were written in the 1860's, 70's and 80's, and since Tom doesn't read or quote them directly I felt poetic license in every respect to use them here.

In one of my earliest chapters I made a passing reference to my Anne's far-from-complimentary views on Hardy, who had only written the three novels by this point, two very badly received, and only the one under his own name, _A Pair of Blue Eyes_ , but whose poems had been and continued to pop up in different magazines and journals. A guest reviewer made many pertinent and impassioned remarks about my not-so-throwaway line at the time; I hope through many subsequent explorations of literary works that it has become established that my Anne, given her harsher non-canon experiences, is very personally tied to the literature that she most likes, and therefore unusually strident about that she doesn't, and it still learning to gain some critical distance. It is something that both Gilbert and Katherine Brooke have called her on. It will be interesting as to whether Anne will read Hardy's new novel later in this narrative. Or Tom.


	19. Chapter 19 Young Gentleman Callers Pt 1

_Dear Lovely Readers_

 _It was not my original intention to split this all important chapter, which has been seventeen chapters in the making! Tom received fleeting mention back in Chapter Two, and since that time I have been building towards this moment, this reunion for Anne and Tom, and the repercussions for all the characters going forward. I thus thank you all for your continued support of this already long ride, which I estimate to be approaching halfway through; my intention is to see out the Redmond years and to follow the general progression of 'Anne of the Island' and hopefully beyond – though the 'beyond' will be a story unto itself!_

 _So apologies, again, for the continued haphazard postings and lengthy times in between – part of splitting this is a desire to get back onto a regular posting schedule with this and my other story, 'Betwixt the Stars' and also partly to give Anne and Tom (and Gilbert!) their due._

 _With additional love and thanks to my reviewers here. I do so love to hear from you and touch base with you all – and apologies if my response is sometimes also delayed._

 _And additionally… with remembrance of Jonathan Crombie, my incomparable Gilbert Blythe, who passed away three years ago today, 15_ _th_ _April. He is in my head and before my eyes with every Gilbert word I write._

 _With love_

 _MrsVonTrapp x_

* * *

 **Chapter Nineteen**

 **Part One**

 **Young Gentleman Callers**

* * *

Gilbert hunched at his desk, weary long body slumped into the hardbacked chair, the Thursday night after arriving back at Redmond. He contemplated the list before him; one he had long memorised, now extended and amended as this most horrendous, interminable week had staggered forwards, he lurching with it from crisis to crisis, like a drunken sailor on shore leave. He hadn't thought he could spend a week like the one he had just come from; in Summerside, cradling Anne as she had sobbed in his arms, fearing Katherine Brooke would slip away right before their eyes. He certainly hadn't thought the ever-present churning in his gut, like a putrid boiling soup about to bubble over the pot, was a sensation he would ever feel again after his worst weeks with his father in Alberta. Perhaps the churning was, finally, beginning to settle, though the acrid aftertaste remained in his throat, however much he attempted to swallow it down. He wondered, not for the first time, if he would ever feel anything but this numbing, pervasive dread ever again.

He crossed another item off his list with the one determined dark stroke, pushed himself away from the desk and paced the small room in frustration, coming to stop by the window, staring out unseeingly at the frigid late winter landscape. Kingsport was reluctant to throw off the shackles of winter if this week had been any indication; the bleak, bitter turn in the weather had seen everyone scurry for the heavy woollens they perhaps hoped they could almost consign to the drawer; certainly the shockingly vibrant ensemble Charlie had been sporting, which he told everyone within earshot was vermilion which might as well be scarlet but looked to Gilbert to have suspiciously more in common with pink, had at least been a welcome diversion. That's if Gilbert allowed him to live the rest of this week to wear it, let alone long enough to actually see the spring; damn Charlie and his damn big, traitorous, gossipy mouth.

The item just completed from that list resting with accusatory acclaim on his desk had been the long letter to his parents, posted just today, following the telegram he had wasted precious money on after his mother's own letter, which had arrived Tuesday;

DEAR MA AND DAD STOP NOT MARRIED OR ELOPED STOP PLEASE DON'T WORRY STOP ALL WELL WILL EXPLAIN LETTER FOLLOWING STOP LOVE GILBERT END

He had agonised over his reply to them; his mother's words, still resolutely loving despite the disbelief and regret etched into them, thinking their only son had not only denied them the chance to see him married but had thrown away all his hard fought dreams and their own hope and sacrifice in the process. That had indeed been the _bitterest gall_ * and a shock he would probably spend the remainder of the school year attempting to soothe. He feared his feelings for Anne had bled between the lines of his own assurances of friendship and protection of her in recounting their time in Summerside; his actions had been, after all, a little more than friend, and rather much too _kind._

Defiantly, he still refused to be sorry; and he still, determinedly, vowed to win her.

Fred's warning – and his advice – had rung in his ears when he had left him last Sunday; Fred, stalwart and supportive to the last, but not really understanding the fire that burned in him with regard to Anne; surely if he had any inkling he would have seen the very notion of staying away from her was impossible. But then Phil, who had hunted him down on the Monday, was of the same mind; Pris and later Diana followed suit, and he had now spent days without her after having shared everything with her; after having been so close they had breathed the same air. Oh, the agony of that little rehearsal for their overdue presentation on those blasted sonnets, only tempered by how they had both risen to the occasion before their class yesterday; they had indeed been triumphant, carrying all before them and earning the good Professor's highest result in years.

There had been no celebration, however; no tea room; and certainly no tree.

Anne, still pale and worried and tremulous, grey eyes shadowed and limpid, had walked with him quietly after class; barely speaking a word except to echo those of others. That they should appear friendly for now but not overly so; that they should not see one another privately for the moment; that they would only contact one another through their many intermediaries; when all he wanted to do was to take her in his arms and kiss away all her doubts. He knew – he _knew –_ that the gossip and innuendo had been harder on her and more harshly directed _at_ her; to hear some of the uglier thoughts circulating had nearly killed him; if he had been made hero through all this she had been made harlot.

It was so bitterly unfair.

Luckily, their supporters were manifold; Phil and Pris guarded her as joint tigresses during the day and Diana now at night, Anne having decamped to some spare room of hers on Tuesday; Fred had looked up every law in his business tomes relating to the spreading and manufacture of false information; even Charlie, in his very un _Sloaneish_ shamefacedness, had mumbled retractions to anyone who might listen, and had written his own mother again to set the record straight. Furthermore, Gilbert's other telegram, early Monday, had enlisted the services of those at Summerside, and he had been in receipt just today of a flurry of supportive missives; the good Dr McCubbin, kindly and complimentary; the Home's Director Mrs Llewelyn, firm and factual; and Katherine Brooke herself by Matron's hand, polite and exacting and barely seething in indignation for them beneath the surface. It would be more than enough with which to return for a second appointment with the Dean tomorrow, who had been greatly concerned by the events that had transpired but not wholly unsympathetic; he had before him, after all, with that first ghastly meeting he and Anne had attended, the all-conquering President of Freshman Year and the young leading lights in the Science and English departments respectively. He had seen much in his time and was not quite at the stage of throwing the baby out with the bathwater. Still, the Dean had sternly urged the utmost care and caution, couched in the firm understanding that nothing of this nature must be allowed to occur ever, ever again, or his hands would most certainly be tied, and no mistake, and no matter how many just-recovered letters of explanation from the still bedridden Mr Fitz or anyone else they might brandish in their defence.

So tomorrow they would see the Dean again; anyone after that whispering falsehoods would need to offer an official retraction, he was sure; he could hold his head up high again and so, more importantly, could Anne.

And then let the dust settle… and then… and then… finally, _finally_ , they could find a quiet, safe place to take down their _book_ from the shelf; he could fully and completely declare himself as he had so longed to; and she could be by his side and he by hers, and _defy you, stars!_ **should anyone or anything dared try to come between them again.

* * *

Anne sat swathed in her dressing gown Thursday night, steaming mug of tea in hand, nibbling on one of Diana's biscuits with more relish than she had tackled any morsel of food in nearly a week. Diana, reclined in the cosy chair opposite Anne's perch on the sofa of their sitting room, smiled at these efforts with rosy cheeked approval. Anne was certainly looking less wan and wearied than when she had met with her on Monday, coming all the way to Redmond to find the pale girl bunkered down in her room, prostrate on the bed, exhausted from a day dodging speculation and enduring an endless round of meetings with everyone from the Dean to her Debating Club Captain. The offer of the little poky attic room, disused except for storage, but with a bed and wardrobe and dresser and desk all the same (though hardly the room for them), had been taken up as a miraculous port in this very ferocious current storm. Diana was now already so used to Anne going about in the lovely old house – and she had already of course charmed their landlady to boot – that she was loathe to ever have her leave; what a wonderful spirit she was to talk to, even at this horrid time; with Ruby always out and Jane always rabbiting weddings and Diana not quite realising before now that loneliness was not the state of being alone, but could be felt amidst the otherwise happy clamour of countless busy comings and goings.

Anne had talked precious little of their time in Summerside, and that had been mostly about Katherine Brooke or sketchy outlines of her own experiences growing up there before her arrival at Redmond; but a note from Gilbert this afternoon had been awaiting her when she picked up her mail and some fresh clothes at her boarding house, and Anne had shared the news of letters from their Summerside cavalry with a soft, faraway look that made Diana bold.

"Right then, Miss Anne. Are you going to divulge what _really_ happened between you and Gil in Summerside?"

At the use of Gilbert's abbreviated name Anne's cheeks blazed suspiciously, and Diana looked on in delighted wonderment.

"Well then, that rather confirms it," Diana smiled serenely.

"Diana Barry, even you yourself admit that Gilbert is a perfect gentleman," Anne hedged, biting her lip.

"Oh, Anne! There's gentleman and then there's _man._ I am quite sure Gilbert managed to be both."

Anne digested this as with her tea, staring at the liquid in contemplation for so long Diana thought she'd go quite mad with the anticipation. She had shared everything with Anne – Fred and the dance and the mistletoe; Fred's visits over Christmas and that near-extraordinary overhead conversation with her mother; the courting; the New Year's Eve dance in Avonlea. She knew Anne wasn't nearly as used to sharing parts of herself – hadn't her awful childhood seen to that? – but they were women together now, ensconced in the cosy sitting room, before a roaring fire, with tea and _biscuits_ , and if _that_ didn't get a confession out of Anne nothing short of the Spanish Inquisition would achieve it.

Anne placed her mug down carefully, and regarded Diana with her big, starry grey eyes.

"Gilbert kissed me."

"I _knew_ it!" Diana's response was a _whoosh_ of delight, and she very nearly clapped her hands together. "Oh, I knew that had to have happened! How wonderful, Anne! You must tell me everything!"

Anne's eyes were round. "You _knew?_ "

"Oh, _that_ was on the cards forever," Diana waved the thought off with her hand with smug satisfaction. "Anyone could tell as much whenever he looked at you. Definitely since that football fundraising dance."

Anne's color had only increased, and her gaping mouth joined her eyes in her patently incredulous expression.

"So you must tell me where? And when? And goodness, probably a little of the _how_ for good measure!" Diana continued gleefully.

"I would think a young lady being courted herself would be familiar with the basics," Anne replied with a little flustered laugh.

Diana would not be denied. "Anne, this is _Gilbert._ I've known him forever. He's never acted towards anyone the way he acts towards you."

Anne's eyes swept downwards. "He said a little of the same thing to me." Her voice was low, as if divulging something very private.

When Diana made no reply, Anne looked back up to her questioningly, to see her lovely face with its dark halo of hair nursing a beatific, dimpled smile.

"Diana?"

Diana moved to the sofa, grasping Anne's hands in hers.

"Anne, I'm _so_ pleased for you. I cannot _tell_ you how thrilled I am for you. But you know I'm a little pleased for Gilbert as well. I had my suspicions that he was only a terrible flirt because he was bored and could get away with it; I never really believed his heart was really in it. I suspected that one day… when he fell for someone, he would fall _hard._ Almost as a penance for driving every other girl between here and Avonlea quite crazy. I hoped it would be someone nice that we could all half stand. Especially with Gil and Fred being thick as thieves. So you must allow me to be very pleased _indeed_ to find out that the girl for him is actually _you._ "

Anne's reaction left Diana unsure whether Anne wanted to grin or to cry.

"And your _first_ kiss, too," Diana offered gently, meaningfully, her dark eyes kind and full of sympathy.

Anne nodded and gave a shuddering breath, remembering that emotional, wrenching conversation over kisses, first or otherwise, when she had dared to share some of the darker moments of her past with the lovely girl opposite her. The one betraying tear broke ranks to journey down her cheek, and Anne brushed it away impatiently.

"So… how was it?" Diana persisted, after having given Anne a moment, squeezing the hand still in hers encouragingly. "I am imagining that Gilbert was a _little_ more expert than Fred. Not that Fred isn't a _very_ diligent and hardworking student," she giggled.

Anne's laugh was relief and delight combined. "Diana, you are incorrigible!"

"I will take that as a compliment."

"You are more like Gilbert than you know!"

Now Diana laughed too. "Probably because he could have been my brother."

Anne's look was appropriately astonished. " _Pardon?_ "

"It's a very long story. But my father courted Gil's mother. They were very nearly engaged I believe. But they found other matches in the end. There is obviously a right person for everyone… and so Gilbert is for _you_."

Anne's cheeks flashed scarlet, or even vermilion. "You really think so?"

"Well, tell me about your kiss and I may be better able to judge."

Anne _did_ grin at that, looking to the fire with eyes sparking in conversation with the flames. She murmured with admirable innocence, "which one?"

" _Anne Shirley_! Oh, that's _it!_ You are forbidden from leaving this room now!"

The two young women giggled like the schoolgirl friends they might have been in another lifetime, and Diana, in her own dressing gown and dainty padded slippers, scooted over to the plate of biscuits to properly fortify herself for the upcoming revelations, whilst Anne took hasty sips of her cooling tea.

"It was before Katherine fell ill…" Anne remembered, hugging herself as if she would clasp the memory to her. "Gilbert had spent the entire day being quite wonderful, running errands for staff and goodness knows what else. They really didn't know what to do with him. They put him up in this awful little room, Diana – you can't imagine - but he bore it all with such good grace. He had been so lovely on the train and so good at the Home and he was so good with Katherine, who is not the easiest person to get along with… and I saw that he was trying to do all this for _me._ And I realised that he couldn't have done all that unless he really _cared_ about me…"

Anne paused and Diana stayed wisely silent, hugging her knees, unwilling to even breathe lest she interrupt the narrative.

"And then later… I happened upon Gilbert talking with Katherine. I heard how he wanted to _court_ me…" At this Diana's eyes flew wide. "I guess he was asking Katherine as there was no one else to ask. I should have been a little put out by this, I suppose – all this talk _about_ me that wasn't even _including_ me – but Diana, all I could think was that _he… Gilbert Blythe_ … wanted to align himself with _me_. He had seen where I had come from – or some of it, at least – and he still wanted me to belong to him in that way…"

Diana, breathlessly agog, took another bite of her biscuit, uncaring as to crumbs and decorum alike.

"Well then, he refused to talk about any of it after that … he hated that everything was all backwards between us… he is so attached to doing things _properly_ … well, somehow we ended up outside in the dark. There is this wooded area at the back of the Girl's Home… and I showed him the apple tree there… and he kissed me under it. Oh, so sweetly and romantically, Diana, like something out of a novel… and then… and then… well, there was a little talking, and a little teasing, and I guess I might have challenged him into kissing me again… only _this_ time… this time… it was a little wild… it was sort of _abandoned_ … I had never felt like that before in my _life…_ the _passion_ from him and I guess the passion from _me_ and in that moment I was a little afraid for us and what would happen and you know it might be shameful but I didn't even _care_ in that moment what _might_ have happened…" Anne trailed off, lost again to the memory, and looked up to her amazed friend with blazing cheeks and pleading eyes. "Nothing _did_ happen, of course. Is that… is that how it's been for you and Fred?"

Diana's own cheeks had caught Anne's blush, and her eyes stared as if forgetting how to blink. She cleared her throat.

"A little," Diana squeaked.

Anne nodded, twisting the hem of her dressing gown distractedly.

"What happened next?" Diana barely managed.

"We went back inside… Katherine became violently ill… we spent all night and the next day trying to save her… Gilbert, thank God, insisted on a better doctor and went across town to fetch him… and through a true miracle, Diana – there is _no_ other explanation for it – she was spared."

"Yes… a true miracle…" Diana murmured distractedly. "And what happened with, ah, you and Gilbert?"

Anne shrugged her shoulders helplessly. "What _could_ happen, Diana? He couldn't have asked me about courting there, in that situation… we agreed… well, we mutually vowed… to wait till things were on an even footing again, back here in Kingsport… and well, _you_ know the rest of _that_ story…" Anne rolled her eyes.

Diana took several unladylike gulps of her own cold tea. "Goodness…" was all she was fit to comment.

"Yes…." Anne sighed.

" _Will_ you, Anne? When he _does_ get to ask you?"

"Will I….?"

"Courting!" Diana laughed. "Or have you forgotten that bit?"

Anne chuckled, a little unconvincingly. "It's a little complicated now."

"Well yes, I know, but that will settle, Anne. What a horrible time for you, last week and this… but really, the letters you told me Gil has received seem to be an end to it. You can go to the Dean with them tomorrow. And I'm not saying run off to the nearest apple tree or anything after that of course but…" Diana frowned as Anne fumbled about in her pocket, withdrawing a letter.

"What's that?"

Anne's expression was grave. "A complication."

"Oh my _goodness…_ " Diana eyed the return address. "It's from _Tom_."

"Yes…" Anne gulped.

"But…?"

"It was waiting for me when I got back on Sunday."

"Oh my _Lord!_ "

Anne leapt up in agitation and paced the sitting room anxiously, eying Diana as she read the words she herself had reread and cried over just about as much as anything to do with supposed elopements.

"Oh, Anne…" Diana breathed.

"I know…"

"What a lovely letter." Diana sighed with the deep satisfaction of the intrinsically romantic.

Anne's reply was mournful, and her grey eyes glistened suspiciously. "I _know…_ "

"I had no idea Tom Caruthers was… well… that he was quite so… _eloquent._ I don't mean to be disparaging, of course. It's just that he usually has about as much to say as Fred does." Diana gave a knowing smile.

Anne nodded absently and resumed her pacing.

"He's wanted to come to see you for _ages_ Anne…" Diana reread several sections. "Gosh I had no idea the situation with the Cuthberts had gotten so desperate. I knew of Mr Matthew's heart problems but I didn't know about Marilla's eyes…"

"Are they very elderly? The Cuthberts?"

Diana paused to think on this. "No more so than most of our parents; my father's general age certainly. It's just that growing up they always _seemed_ old. Till Tom arrived at any rate. Just a little stern and a little sad, out there at Green Gables on the edge of the woods. Marilla Cuthbert especially. You know it was rumoured _she_ might have married Gilbert's father back in the day…"

" _Gilbert's_ father?" Anne's incredulity had halted her pacing. "Are there only a dozen people in your Avonlea, Diana?" she couldn't resist the jibe.

Diana rolled her eyes. "Don't you be saucy with me, Miss Shirley. You have enough problems."

"I know," Anne let a very long breath of chagrin escape, thumping back in her seat next to Diana.

"Does Gilbert know about Tom?" Diana asked pointedly.

"No…" Anne's cheeks heated anew. "He knows that… when we returned to Redmond I gave him a letter in which I revealed that… there is someone special to me, dating from my time at the orphanage… I guess I haven't really specified their _gender…_ it's just that, I would tell Gilbert the story – or at least the parts of the story I can _bear_ to remember – but it's not solely my story to tell, is it, Diana? It's _his_ too. I can't betray Tom in that way."

It was the dark haired girl's turn to sigh. "Does _Tom_ know about _Gilbert_?"

"In general terms…" Anne hedged. "Insomuch as we're friends and I met him here in Kingsport, the same as you all…"

"Excepting you don't go around passionately _kissing_ all your Kingsport friends," Diana gave an arch smile.

"Well, I'd think that rather happened _after_ my letter to Tom," Anne huffed in reply.

"Yes, it did, darling. I'm sorry. I shouldn't tease."

The two young women sat in befuddled silence.

"What will you do?" Diana ventured after a long moment.

"Tell Gilbert," Anne determined, with a shuddering sigh. "I owe him _that_ much and so much more, after all. "Perhaps after the Dean and after classes, this weekend some time…" Anne shrugged her shoulders helplessly. "And I guess I will tell Tom when he comes to visit the end of next week…" Anne continued. "Though I hardly know what to say to him. Tell me about him, will you, Diana? What's he really like now?"

Diana had been frowning down at the letter still in her hand, but now she stilled. "I think you'll find out for yourself soon enough, Anne."

"Well, yes, I know, but in the meantime…"

Diana gulped. "There _is_ no _meantime_ , darling."

"I don't understand you, Di…"

"Anne, you have it in your head that Tom is visiting you next week, but you are forgetting that you were away a week in Summerside already. You haven't counted back far enough from when he sent this. Anne, darling, Tom doesn't arrive in Kingsport _next_ Friday…" Diana looked into those haunted eyes grown round again, "he arrives _tomorrow_."

* * *

Tom rose before dawn on Friday, dressing not in his worn overalls but in his equal best still-new navy suit, after very carefully, if critically, examining himself in the glass, noting with some surprise how the color on him complimented his blonde locks and brought out the gently shaded depth of his pale blue eyes.

He looked around the little east gable room. What would he tell Anne of this room? Of this _life_? Would he be able to get out any words at all?

Downstairs all the people in his world were again assembled; he carried his bag and placed it by the door, and then came back to the dining table carefully.

"Won't you eat something, Tom?" Marilla urged, and his ears caught the catch in her voice.

"Sorry, Marilla. Perhaps on the other side… you know how I am with the ferry crossing," he shook his head despairingly.

Some things had never changed. Tom had been back and forth to the mainland enough times over the years to know that the churning in his gut always accompanied the churning of the water across the strait, and wasn't a one-time coincidence brought about by the wretched emotion of that taxing, traumatic day all those years ago, when he had expected to wave off Anne to a new life and instead had her wide grey eyes on his as the last image he feared he would ever have of her… of her eyes on him as he had left her.

But he was coming _to_ her now.

' _Through sleet and snow_

 _To where I know_

 _She waits for me…'_ ***

"You have the name of the hotel?" Marilla wavered.

"Yes," Tom nodded. " _And_ a second choice. Don't worry there, Marilla. I think somewhere in Kingsport they'll have room for me," he smiled wryly.

"Mind all the beggars near the station, Tom," Rachel warned, still oblivious, as Tom never could be, that if things had been different he could well have been one of them. "Even in hoity toity Kingsport. They will badger you something terrible, seeing as you look like a businessman and all in that suit. I was clear surprised when Matthew and Marilla decided on that color for it but I have to stand corrected. You look right handsome. More than enough for some reunion with… who is it again now?"

"Just an old friend studying at Redmond College, Rachel," Marilla interjected firmly, catching Tom's eye.

Providence had been kind in sending Rachel off to bed early that night so, even above Davy's protestations, it had only been Marilla herself to greet the new year when Tom had stumbled in the door to Green Gables not long after it. Only she to know how his large hand shook as he gave her the letter from an unknown girl who could well have been a ghost, so effectively had she haunted him all these years; only Marilla in that moment to make sense of the chatty, generous missive which ran to eight pages of heartfelt sentiments and tearful regrets and happy tidings and warmly-fond remembrances so that she understood, perhaps for the very first time, why Tom had never quite been able to let the thought of her go.

And now this girl, grown to young woman, was made a reality, and Tom's step was light and his speech lively and his look eager as never before. Would they take to one another as of old? Would she regret not coming to Avonlea? Would Tom regret that he hadn't been able to bring her? Would he want to come back?

That was the real question. Every time Marilla saw him go, whether it be to visit his mother's grave in Hopetown, which he had journeyed to on her birthday since he was fifteen; whether to Charlottetown in search of new books and manuals or to White Sands and beyond in search of new equipment and farming methods; whether even to Carmody for his new suit; the nagging, gnawing, ever-present, unmentionable fear; had they – had _this_ – been enough for him?

"Best be heading to the station 'fore long," a well-recovered Matthew, set with the buggy to drop him off, reminded them all quietly.

And then there was Dora giving him a hug and Davy attempting his new man-of-the-house-now handshake and Rachel giving a kiss and hearty reminders not to accidentally leave his pocketbook in his coat when he took it off indoors and Marilla standing before him with bright eyes and a determined smile.

"For your friend," she said brusquely, thrusting a jar of plum jam and a jar of preserves into his hands. "Perhaps a little of Green Gables for them."

Tom surveyed the jars with a broken smile, enfolding her in the sort of embrace that they had both taken a while to grow into, but now both sought in unquestioning affection and sympathy and solace.

"I'll be back soon," he whispered into her ear, in the refrain he had offered since still a boy, at the start of every lone journey he had ever made beyond the reach of Avonlea. It was the refrain he had always given his mother. It was the vow he had whispered under his breath to Anne as the carriage had pulled away from the orphanage.

Matthew clapped him on the back and then waited for Tom to don his coat, scarf and hat. He wondered at the symmetry of life every time he had dropped Tom off at Bright River over the years, remembering too well the boy who had sat there waiting for him, sleepy and spent in the sunshine, a world ago, and occasionally wondering, too, about the girl he may have found waiting for him instead.

Tom turned to give a wave and an easy smile, thinking he would definitely, always return, but already wondering whether, one fine day, he might bring a visitor.

* * *

Gilbert sat with tapping foot and jangling knee outside the Dean's office Friday morning. They had already endured a joint meeting and now the distinguished and refreshingly sympathetic gentleman was having a quiet word to them separately. Gilbert's _quiet word_ had been along the lines of remembering his responsibilities as a gentleman and as a Redmond scholar (the two concepts naturally thought interchangeable), which included safeguarding a young lady's reputation above middle of the night mercy missions halfway across the country. He greatly feared Anne was sequestered away hearing a tailored version of the same thing; her shamefaced look and heated cheeks once she emerged into the waiting area informed him of as much. He tried to catch her eye but she did not pause and instead swept past him, and he paced after her, bounding down the steps and out into the grey February day, which should at least have made the effort of a little sun to warm them after the week they had endured.

"Anne!" he pleaded, reaching for her arm.

"I just needed some air, Gilbert."

"Of course. I'm sorry. About every second of this week."

"Don't be," she sighed. "I dragged you into this."

" _No,_ Anne…" he determined, clasping both her arms and turning her to face him. "We have been in this _together._ From the very first. We were in Summerside together and we saw Katherine Brooke survive together and we have put up with this hellish week together, fighting for one another if not always side by side. There is no _I_ about any of this. Only _we._ "

She blinked back quick, too-ready tears.

"I only hope…" his voice wavered, not in resolution but in general fatigue and the overwhelm of the moment, "that there is still a time for us. After we take a breath after all of this. That, Anne, _you_ and _I_ are still a _we._ "

She seemed to choke on her reply, which sounded worryingly like a sob.

"Gilbert… I sincerely hope you will still feel that way after this weekend. Truly, I do."

"What would make me change? Have you any other young men lined up to pretend elope with?" he tried an ill-fated stab at their old teasing humour.

The poor joke was met with such horrified consternation he took a step backwards.

"Anne? What is it? You know we are in the clear now. I'm so sorry all the talk has been so awful for you especially. It has sickened me. I have shut down every single approach from anyone seeking to dishonour you in any way. There had _better_ now not be _one_ pointed look in your direction or - "

"No, Gilbert, that's not it…"

"Then what? Are you worried about us being seen together?"

Her look to him was mournful. "The Dean _strongly_ advised against it outside of class for the next few weeks. Till all the talk completely dies down. I would hardly think either of us want to endanger his support of us by flouting his request."

Gilbert straightened slowly, dropping his arms.

"No, of course not, Anne… I respect his motivations even if I don't entirely agree with his reasoning. But we have done _nothing_ wrong. Our actions this end were ill judged, I will acknowledge that, but they weren't wrong. I know you might need some time… I understand that. Heck, the Dean has all but _demanded_ we take some time. I know the dilemma we face at the moment. But I… I've _missed_ you."

"Oh, _Gilbert_ …"

"Will you let me call on you, round at Diana's? That's far away enough from the Redmond gossips and any prying eyes. Either tonight or – "

"Gilbert…" her voice was strangled now. "I'm sorry, I don't think that's a good idea…"

"Any time this weekend, Anne; anytime that suits you… You do need some rest, I know. We don't have to decide on a time straight away… "

"Gilbert! Please stop for a minute. Let's walk… I need to explain something to you."

"That sounds ominous," he intoned, quirking a dark brow and falling into step beside her.

Her watery smile did not even attempt to reach her eyes. "Gilbert, I'm sorry I can't meet you, even at Diana's… I have… a friend coming to see me today."

"A _friend?_ " he echoed the term uncertainly, as if it was a foreign concept.

"An… an old friend. I'm sorry, the timing was very unexpected. They sent a letter while we were in Summerside."

"Well, Anne…" his face showed his relief, "of course you must see her! I wouldn't want to stand in the way of _that_."

Anne drew in a long breath and turned to him in challenge. "The _her_ is a _him,_ Gilbert."

His hazel eyes grew wide, and he slowed his pace as if his brain needed all his energy to make sense of the thought. "Oh."

"We knew each other a long time ago… we haven't seen one another for many, many years…"

"How many years?" he asked warily after a moment, fighting to keep his voice even.

"Does it matter?"

He regarded her carefully. "I have a feeling it might."

"Gilbert…"

"From your time in the Home at Summerside? Or before?"

She paused for breath. "Before," she admitted tightly.

He stopped suddenly, placing his hands on slim hips.

"The orphanage? Where was it… Hopetown? Or when you were with that horrible Hammond woman who –"

" _Gilbert_! What point do any of these questions serve?" she asked desperately.

"I'm sorry Anne! It's just that this is a little sudden and… well, a little disconcerting."

Her look to him seemed a touch disappointed. "Disconcerting that I should have a male friend other than you? Or disconcerting in that you are only just now learning about it?"

He tried very hard not to scowl, and failed miserably. " _Both_ , frankly."

"Oh. _Right,_ then!"

"Anne! Please don't be like that! We're both on edge still. Just when I thought things would be going back to normal, _this_ now comes along!" he tugged at his hair in frustration.

"You might have to work on your ability to deal with the unexpected, Gilbert!"

"Well, I thank you for _another_ lesson there, Anne!"

If he had suspected he'd crossed a line as soon as the words had escaped him, the spark of green as her eyes flashed to his was enough to confirm it. He groaned heartily to himself.

" _Anne_ …"

"I'll leave you alone to process these dramatic revelations, shall I?" she gave sharp, highhanded reply, and resumed her pace.

"Anne!" he reached for her hand, holding it firmly, halting her. "I'm sorry."

Hurt grey-green eyes blistered in her pale face as she glared up at him. "I am not sharing this information to make your life more difficult, Gilbert," she huffed.

"I know. I'm being an idiot."

She bit down on her lip, hesitating. "I wouldn't go _that_ far…"

His smile was gentle. "Anne, I'm a little worried. Where are you even meeting this male friend from all these years ago? What do you know about him now? Is he of reputable character? Can he be trusted? What if – "

"Gilbert…" now she gave her own reluctant smile. "I _do_ appreciate your concern! Especially in light of all we've gone through. I'd trust him with my life, actually, as I do you. I… it's so difficult to explain to you… I fear you won't understand, even if you try to."

"Well, good to know the confidence in my abilities still stands," he grinned, looking at the hand he still held and lacing his gloved fingers through hers determinedly.

Her cheeks were very rosy indeed at this bold gesture. "Gilbert…" she murmured, darting an anxious glance around her.

"You trust me to hold hands but you don't trust me with the truth," he sighed in exaggerated fashion.

"This is not a simple thing, Gilbert. This friend is… he's part of my past. An _important_ part. But he's part of _your_ past as well…"

His brow furrowed. "How is that possible?"

"Because… I knew him when I was at Hopetown Asylum, Gilbert. When his mother died and he was adopted and moved to Avonlea."

Gilbert had stopped, his mouth falling open. " _Pardon?"_

"Gilbert…" she shook on the very words so long in being revealed, looking up to hishazel eyes narrowed in confusion, "my long-lost friend is Tom Caruthers."

* * *

"Right, Anne," Gilbert breathed, leaning his elbows on his knees as they perched on the most secluded bench they could find, on short notice, near the back of the science building. He rubbed at his temples worryingly. "Just take me through this all again."

"Gilbert, you have a class…" Anne reminded gently. "You can't get behind after just catching up again."

" _Hang_ my class, Anne!" his handsome face darkened considerably. "I need to make some sense of this."

Anne wrapped her arms around her waist defensively, searching the skies as if the heavens held the answer to how to navigate this conversation.

"You know about the Hammonds, Gilbert. After Mr Hammond died I was sent back to the orphanage in Hopetown. I… there was a boy locally, who chopped wood for the orphanage and up and down the nearby houses. His father had left them and his mother was sick. We would talk when we had the chance. I… I was very lonely. I think so was he. We… we became friends." Anne bit the inside of her lip, knowing that she was being rather particular with the facts, picking her way through them like fruit at a market stall, taking only what she preferred and what looked best when held up to the light. But she had not protected Tom all this time to falter now. No one need know he had been resident at the orphanage too.

"How old were you?" Gilbert asked quietly.

"Eleven. Tom was a year or so older."

"The thought of you in that orphanage, Anne…" his deep voice faltered, and he looked at her bleakly. "I've seen Summerside now, and you've hinted that was a picnic compared to the asylum."

"In a way it was," she shrugged helplessly.

"And then Tom's mother died…" he took up the narrative. "She had consumption."

"Yes… I know…"

"He was already in Avonlea by the time I arrived back from Alberta with my father. We… we talked about his mother once. That wasn't an easy conversation. He was very knocked about by her death," Gilbert frowned, staring into the distance, long body still hunched over.

"You were his friend, then?" Anne asked with a small smile, her heart lurching at the thought of those tall boys, dark and blonde, walking home together, fishing, doing all the things boys did – all the images of his new life that had helped sustain her. "That makes me so glad, Gilbert."

He gave her a quick flash of his lovable grin.

'Not just a friend – he was in my _posse_."

"Oh, well then!" her laugh struggled free. "And who else held such an exalted position?"

"Fred. Charlie. And another friend, Moody, whom you've yet to meet."

"And you were their fearless leader?"

"Naturally," he smirked.

"Are you _still_ friends?" she asked tentatively.

It was Gilbert's turn to shrug. "Sure. Of course. I just haven't seen him much these past few years. What with Queen's and teaching, and now Redmond. Fred actually is probably closest to him. He's done very well for the Cuthberts actually… being on the farm… that was mutually lucky, for him _and_ for them. He was a distant relation of theirs, wasn't he?"

Anne swallowed carefully. "So I understand."

"So… _he_ came to Avonlea…" Gilbert reflected, hazel eyes looking intently to her, "and _you_ went to Summerside."

Anne cleared her throat. "That's about the size of it."

"And you never kept in touch, even being such good friends?"

On this part she could be unequivocal. "We weren't _allowed_ to, Gilbert!" she flared. " _Believe_ me, if they had let us write or keep any letters – "

"Anne! I'm sorry! I'm not trying to accuse you of anything. As I said, I'm just trying to understand…"

She huffed herself into silence.

"There's just one thing…" Gilbert hesitated. "You said in the letter you gave me, when we came back here after Summerside… well, you said that there was someone from your past who was still important to you… that you felt… I think you said… _bonded_ to them." He looked at his large hands, rather than her, his mouth working around the words. "You're meaning _him,_ aren't you? You were trying to tell me about him there."

Anne gulped. "Yes…"

"That must have been a pretty strong connection, for you to feel it still after all this time, Anne. When you were both just kids, too."

"What are you trying to say, Gilbert?"

"Nothing, Anne. Just trying to understand, as I say…"

"He was my only friend, Gilbert. And when I mean only I mean _only,_ ever. Till I came to Redmond. There was no _posse_ for us. There was just _us._ We were frightened, abandoned kids trying to survive. Isn't that _bond_ enough?"

"I'm sorry, Anne. I didn't mean to upset you. Yes… yes, of course… absolutely it is."

There was much staring at the sky, the grass, their hands, which they kept carefully to themselves. It didn't feel very much like a _we_ sort of moment.

"Gilbert," Anne attempted. "I know this is challenging. I know it's not usual. But he has been your friend. Can he not be mine again, too?"

"You don't need my permission for that, Anne," Gilbert sighed. "Nor does he."

"No…" she echoed his words to Katherine Brooke back to him. "But I'd like your blessing."

He gave a twisted, pained smile.

"I don't think I could deny you anything, ever, Anne."

She stood and put a hand on his arm. "Go to Biology, Gilbert."

" _Right_ ," he huffed. "Where I can look daggers at Maisie for helping to spread rumours about us."

"People's words only have the power to hurt you if you let them."

"Is that something you learned at the orphanage?" he rasped, his look unfathomable.

"Yes, most definitely," she gave a sad smile, her memory flickering back to two terrified children huddled together, and of an evil man with excellent aim. "And also," she added pointedly, "this past week at Redmond."

* * *

Phil and Pris had seen out their final classes for the week with a relief more deserving of the end of the year than the near-end of February. They envisioned a weekend fighting for the armchairs by the fireplace in the common room downstairs, catching up on overdue correspondence, and struggling out to Diana's on Sunday to check on Anne and be force-fed uncommonly delicious French delicacies. The high drama of the past fortnight concerning the beleaguered Miss Shirley and Mr Blythe was fortunately fading to intermittent encounters with ill informed individuals who were soon set to rights by one of Miss Gordon's glorious put-downs. There was now the additional knowledge of Anne's breathless update before Art History; she had informed them that the matter, aside from any lingering innuendo, could be put to rest; that neither she nor Gilbert had any official sanctions imposed excepting a dire warning to keep a low profile, and that, barring any difficulties in catching up with their coursework, the Dean did not expect to see either of them in his office outside of academic matters again.

This should have been due cause for celebration, but Anne was so wild-eyed and distracted both her friends feared Diana would need to put a sleeping draft in some warm milk for her just to get Anne to settle down that evening. She left them with vague mumbles that she needed to run some errands and that she would look forward to seeing them on Sunday. It was hoped a good night's sleep would arrest some of her obvious nervous exhaustion.

So now both women came down the stairs that opened out into the boarding house foyer and reception desk, noting the tall, broad shouldered, well outfitted young man leaning against the desk, avidly perusing a note, promising bouquet of pink roses resting beside him. His fair hair rather radiantly caught a stray shaft of struggling winter sun, and the image was unintentionally mesmeric.

"Good gracious," Phil murmured in awestruck admiration. "I think my memory has just wiped all trace of Alec and Alonzo."

"I don't believe it…" Pris breathed. "I think…I'm pretty sure… that's Tom Caruthers."

"Tom What?" Phil repeated stupidly, as if in a stupor.

At that moment the man who might be Tom Caruthers turned, and pale blue eyes darted around the unfamiliar foyer and swept up towards the ladies, coming to settle with surprise on the familiar pretty blonde girl, arm in arm with an arrestingly attractive brunette. Tom started and almost dropped his note, grasping it more tightly as he worked to compose himself. She was not here; which was just as well. It was much too public and peopled for the quiet, private reunion he had always envisioned in his head. However, others _were_ here. Still holding his note but temporarily abandoning the flowers, he took a tentative step towards them, and Pris responded with fervour, pulling Phil and herself towards him.

"Excuse me, Miss, er, Grant, I don't know if you remember me…?"

"Mr Caruthers. Of course I remember you! How very nice to see you again."

Pris extended an eager hand, which was dwarfed by his large warm one, looking up at him in not a little wonderment.

A discreet nudge to her rib cage prompted a reminder of her manners.

"Mr Caruthers, I am pleased to introduce to you my friend, Miss Philippa Gordon."

His eyes swung to the young lady beside her. "Miss Gordon. A pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise, Mr Caruthers," Phil gave her generous, winning, crooked smile. "And how do you know our fair Priscilla?"

Tom blinked at her easy familiarity and forthrightness.

"He fixed my roof," Pris blurted, lest he think she didn't remember it at all, being as he seemed so differently attired these days. "Two years ago, he and Gilbert fixed my schoolhouse roof. When I was teaching on the Island. In Carmody." Pris inwardly frowned at the usual fluency that had now quite abandoned her, though Tom Caruthers smiled at her remembrances.

So she _did_ remember. He had thought over that weekend more times than the event itself perhaps warranted. Which probably said more about his poor attempts at socialisation over the years than the impression left by the encounter itself. Gilbert and he, incongruously fixing stray shingles to guard against the rain whilst bathed in the late September sunshine. Gilbert had spent an inordinate amount of time halfway up the ladder, in laughing conversation with the young schoolmistress. Tom had seen him in action on enough occasions to recognise the spark of their exchange; the flirtatious frisson like a rosy haze with which all Gil's interactions with young ladies seemed to be colored. He did not envy him his expertise, for that presupposed he wanted some of it for his own; he envied his secure footing and knowledge of his place in the world, whether it be fronting his own class at White Sands or staring down school bullies or as then, trading witticisms with the vivacious girl who seemed to be not quite buying what he was peddling but who was enjoying gazing in the window at the goods all the same.

And then Gilbert announced the need for more nails. Surely, thought Tom, they had enough to see them though?

Which left Tom trapped on the roof, whilst Miss Priscilla Grant coaxed him down like a reluctant cat stuck up a tree.

He had barely said a word, glancing at her above his lemonade glass, but she appeared not to mind so much, her lips pressed together as if to ward off her amusement, though her clear blue eyes surveyed him with a frankness that tried to unmask him, and he wondered if he stayed much longer whether she would succeed… and even, the realisation, frightening and unwarranted and new, whether he wanted her to.

He felt not unlike that trapped cat again now, though he had an even merrier and perhaps even sharper set of new eyes to deal with.

"You know Gilbert Blythe?" Phil's brown orbs lit with interest, and Tom snapped back to the present like a rubber band stretched and pulled too taut, and then let go. "You're from Avonlea too?"

Tom cleared his throat. "I was born in Nova Scotia, Miss Gordon… but I grew up in Avonlea. Where I indeed became friends with Gilbert."

"My goodness, what a little town to hold two such tall, strapping young men."

Tom colored faintly at the obviously flirtatious praise; Pris felt her teeth gnash together completely of their own accord.

"What brings you to Kingsport, Mr Caruthers?" Pris ventured, wanting to save him from the embarrassment of such overt attentions; not wanting to admit perhaps she also wanted to save herself from witnessing them.

"Please, _Tom,_ Miss Grant. I… er… I am here to visit a very old friend."

"I'm afraid you might have the wrong boarding house at that rate, Mr Caruthers," Phil twinkled gleefully. "The male boarding house is around the corner."

"I… er… I am in the right spot, I assure you, Miss Gordon," Tom Caruthers blushed keenly now. "Though I am… er… not so fortunate at this very moment." He remembered the note, which he folded carefully and tucked in his breast pocket. "That is… forgive me, I do not mean to imply I am not fortunate to meet you two ladies…" his cheeks had morphed to crimson, and his awkwardness was made all the more endearing by his self aware, exasperated smile. "It is just it seems my friend Miss Shirley is across the other side of the city."

" _Miss Shirley?"_ both women offered in synchronised incredulity, pretty mouths falling open.

Tom stared at this sight, not knowing if he should chuckle or gawp his own surprise.

"Er, yes. My friend, Miss Anne Shirley." His eyes brightened just to be able to name her out loud. "She has written me of her close friendship with the both of you."

Phil beamed at this. "Well, Anne is a darling, Mr Caruthers, so it appears you have excellent taste there. But I'm afraid she is staying with another of our mutual friends, which you have discovered I see. She's temporarily at the lodgings of Miss Diana Barry."

"Yes, thank you, Miss Gordon. So I understand."

"Is that where you are headed now, Mr Caruthers? Do you have the address?" Phil enquired.

"Yes I do. Thank you."

"Will you have some tea first?" Pris interjected, with an edge of desperation. "You must be tired from your travels."

Admittedly, Tom Caruthers looked far from tired. He felt – and looked – energised to be so close to seeing her, despite this small setback, and already rather liked the handsome, genteel old town. An extra half hour's journey to find her after seven years of waiting was hardly going to be arduous.

Tom's gaze settled on Pris momentarily.

"Thank you, Miss Grant, that is a very kind offer. But I'm afraid I must be going."

Something seemed to flicker in his pale blue eyes as he looked at her, but was blinked quickly away.

"Thank you, ladies," he bobbed his head. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Gordon. And you, again, Miss Grant." He paused, deliberating, and then inclined his head ever so slightly in Pris's direction.

"Stay _dry_ , Miss Grant," he gave a small, knowing smile.

Her own quick, answering grin was a little more flustered than she may have ordinarily reckoned on, and Tom Caruthers was then back towards the desk with long strides, collecting flowers, overcoat and hat, and out the doors as they stared after him.

" _Tea,_ darling?" Phil repeated, giving an arch smile at her companion accompanied by a dark raised brow.

"Don't tease, Phil! I was just being polite."

" _Indeed."_

"He made a _joke,"_ Pris reflected wonderingly. "I didn't think he was quite capable."

"He made quite the _impression,_ at any rate," Phil's tone was characteristically dry.

"Do you think Anne has told Gilbert about him? And that they have known each other all this time? How is that even possible? _Old friends?_ Don't you think that's a little extraordinary?"

Phil shook her head. "All I know is that Miss Anne is currently besting all of us when it comes to young gentleman callers without even trying, and we had better lift our game, Priscilla Grant."

"Yes, indeed…" Pris made wistful reply.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

 **My chapter title is from** _ **Anne of the Island**_ **Ch. 3**

" _ **Miss Hannah gravely told me we could have 'young gentleman callers' two evenings in the week, if they went away at a reasonable hour; and Miss Ada asked me, smiling, please to be sure they didn't sit on her beautiful cushions."**_

*William Shakespeare _Romeo and Juliet_ (Act 1 Sc 5)

** _Romeo and Juliet_ (Act 5 Sc 1)

***Thomas Hardy _'I Need Not Go'_ from _Wessex Poems_ (1898)


	20. Chapter 20 Young Gentleman Callers Pt 2

_After promising this reunion for so long I am nervous about posting it; such is the nature of a slow build up to an important event! I hope I have done justice to it. Thank you, as ever, to my generous reviewers, and thank you to my faithful readers – with an especial welcome to anyone who has discovered this story recently._

 _There is certainly a 'Part Three' to this section, but it may bear its own chapter title._

 _With a little wink back to **mavors4986** and any other fans of Marty McFly x_

* * *

 **Chapter Twenty**

 **Young Gentleman Callers**

 **Part Two**

* * *

"I'm really not so sure about this…" Fred grumbled uncharacteristically, worry clouding his pleasant, blunt features. "It doesn't seem quite fair to Gil. As if we're keeping something from him."

Diana tucked her arm into his, smiling at him indulgently.

"Keeping _what_ from him, exactly? The fact I almost burnt the plum puffs?"

Fred emitted a long breath, made frosty on the late afternoon air. They had wandered for a good half hour, traversing the streets, and were now on the edge of Kingsport's great, handsome park, made quiet and still in the winter gloom. Fred could well have thought of a more relaxing and convivial way of spending precious time with Diana after a long week; one which involved the lady in question, a roaring fire and the sofa in the sitting room; plum puffs optional. And now they had vacated the premises in anticipation of the most unlikely combination of Anne… and Tom Caruthers.

"Anne _did_ tell him, you know," Diana reflected. "I knew from her face as soon as she came in. And Fred, keeping secrets is different to needing a little privacy. Gilbert knows she is meeting an old friend. He knows now that it's Tom. It can't be easy for her to be juggling his reappearance with what's happened with Gilbert. The timing after the last few weeks couldn't be worse, really, but that's not anyone's fault, least of all Tom's."

"I can't _believe_ she knew him all this time…" Fred shook his head as if to clear it, directing them along the path which meandered towards the gazebo. "It's like something out of a novel. And not a very good one."

"Oh, Fred!" Diana chided. "Friends separated for years, now reunited… Gil patiently waiting in the wings… it's a wonderful story, really! Their destiny has brought them to each other." Her enthusiastic tone and her delighted smile proclaimed her sincerity.

"I guess you couldn't expect anything ordinary of Gil… _or_ Anne," Fred rolled his eyes. "We must seem pretty boring in comparison."

"Who are you calling _boring,_ Fred Wright?" Diana protested, laughing.

"Well, _me,_ I guess," he admitted, sheepishly. "Boring. Conventional. Stuck-in-the-mud."

"There was nothing _conventional_ about you coming here to Kingsport!" Diana argued loyally. "There was certainly nothing conventional about your speech to my mother. It wasn't stuck-in-the-mud. It was… heroic."

Fred colored and smiled faintly at this, but his sombre mood had somewhat taken hold.

"You always say lovely things, Diana…" his low voice became very low indeed, and he took a great interest in the neat flowerbeds and shrubbery. "But I look at the other girls. Phil has suitors left, right and centre, as does Ruby; Jane is engaged to a millionaire; Pris seems to have a good time whatever the circumstances; Anne has Gilbert and now _Tom_ paying court to her… and _you…_ well, I feel you've been stuck with the door prize."

The bright flash to his cheeks had nothing to do with the cold.

Fred wouldn't look at her, _couldn't_ look at her after such a confession. He expected her soft, reassuring murmurings; even her hand tighter, somewhat consolingly, on his arm. He did not expect her next words.

"Kiss me, Fred Wright!" Diana exclaimed suddenly.

"Diana?" he stopped and turned, eyes wide.

"Kiss me, Fred, and I'll _show_ you how much of a prize I think you are!"

Fred's shock and surprise at this audacious invitation could not be given adequate expression in his rather strangled reply.

"Here? Out in the open?"

"Are you too conventional for that?" Diana challenged with a too-bright smile, her color high.

Fred knew they had passed by an older couple seated on a bench; there was a young family chasing a child around the grass just ahead of them; there were assorted townsfolk milling about; there would be people able to see their scandalous behaviour from the gazebo. But all Fred saw were Diana's lovely bright dark eyes; all he heard were her words about high romance beating about his brain; all he felt were his own passions pushed down, struggling against his constantly creeping feelings of inadequacy.

He leaned in and kissed her gently but firmly. And too briefly. Closed-mouthed and as romantic as his father bidding his mother goodnight.

He read it in her eyes; her smile which couldn't hide her disappointment. She had wanted Gilbert in that moment and he had given her himself. It was a very poor substitution.

"Well, _there_ , then…" she whispered huskily, and drew back. "Do you… think we should make for the gazebo?"

She did not answer but began walking, whilst he remained rooted to the spot, stuck to the path like a limp wet leaf, or thrown there like a toy so old and dated that no crying child would bother to go back to reclaim it. He thought miserably of all the kisses he had longed to give her though all the long years; of the dark, sometimes disturbing passion for her that kept him tossing in his bed at night; of the dreams that saw him recast himself as the taller, better looking swain of any number of histrionic romances, where the hero swept in, knocking types like him aside in his hurry to claim the girl who had waited for him.

 _He_ had waited for her. Did he not have the courage to make her glad he did?

Fred took quick strides and grabbed at her arm at a stretch, pulling her back to him awkwardly. He stood eye-to-eye to her and their foreheads bumped. His lips on hers this time didn't even feel like his; they were not respectful and steady but hot and seeking, as if he was trying to find the part of himself in her that made him deserving of such a kiss in the first place. Something wound so tightly within him unravelled and broke as she yielded to him, first in astonishment and then in a growing ardour. She clutched his shoulders as she welcomed his mouth to this fevered trespass; to this white-hot messy inexpert grasping of breath and tongues and aching.

He withdrew, shaking as much as she. He readied himself for a sound slap.

It came, not from the dark haired beauty breathing heavily before him, but from the grey haired matron who gave them such a disgusted look as she passed she may as well have reached up to batter his cheek with her hand herself.

He should say he was sorry to Diana for insulting her in such a way. He should beg her forgiveness. Only her look to him made it difficult to feel the appropriate remorse; when the hot blush to her creamy complexion rivalled the new red rawness from his stubble around her mouth, and her ruby red lips made blood red by the attentions of his curled upwards in something that looked too pleased to be affronted.

"Fred Wright…" Diana finally managed, slowly coming to her senses, linking a slightly unsteady arm again through his. "Please be a little boring like that more often."

* * *

Tom felt that his soul could only survive in the country now, but his body betrayed him; it remembered the rush and the tear and the people and the pace as the young city boy he had been; the smells and the sights and the noise and the nervous energy. He felt his heart pump encouragingly in time to the steady pace he set in making his way from the college, through the town and out to the rather monied streets beyond; several women smiled at him for the bouquet he brandished; he could have chosen yellow roses for friendship, he knew, but had reckoned that part was largely pre determined; so now he was as hopeful and expectant as his blush pink blooms.

' _Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me…'_ *

As he neared he slowed, and his fear fluttered deep within his chest. He rounded the corner, checked the name twice, and then turned onto the street where she lived. Not some nameless Girls Home he would never discover; he had written to four Homes for Girls dotted across the mainland over the years, without success. She lived _here._ Not in some shack where a hard woman had too many twins; not in the bed by the window across the other side from him in a draughty dormitory; not on a farm in a little east gable room; not even, this moment, in another room alongside a series of rooms at the edge of the college; but… _here._

 _Here._

' _Can it be you that I hear? Let me view you, then…'_ *

He halted at the house; gulped at the gate; paced down the path; directed himself to door.

' _Thus I; faltering forward,_

 _Leaves around me falling,_

 _Wind oozing thin through the thorn from norward,_

 _And the woman calling.'_ *

He paused, his hand raised. She was on the other side of it. She was here. She was…

The door swung open without prelude or preamble. He didn't even have time to knock.

She was _standing right before him._

There had been over seven long years lost, but time stood still as if having a final laugh at their expense. He saw the large, shining grey eyes of his imaginings; the red hair darkened to a bright, burnished auburn; a pale face aglow with excited expectation; a generous mouth widened in wonder. All the boys he had been – the bereft orphan; the comrade-in-arms; the awkward adolescent; the shy young man – crowded around him as if to better take in the sight of her. Was she really _here?_ Was she indeed real? Was she really staring as he stared, disbelieving and exultant in the same breath?

He should attempt to say something, for she seemed incapable. He had rehearsed any number of pretty speeches, but the words fled him, as they so often did. All he remembered was their vow.

"I promised I would find you, Anne."

She seemed to disassemble at the sound of his voice; as if she was only held together by their unbroken silence, and that once he had bridged it she could do nothing but crumble before him, her body spent on a sob.

"Oh, Tom!" she reached up blindly, connecting with the strong arms that came around her without hesitation.

* * *

Anne held fast to his arm as she directed him inside, raising the grey eyebrows of a small, plump personage whom he could only surmise was the landlady, who seemed to expect him, if not the tears Anne was hastily wiping with her hand.

"Would you like tea in the sitting room, Miss Shirley?"

"Oh, yes, thank you, Mrs McKenzie, that would be wonderful!"

"Will Miss Diana and Mr Wright be back soon?"

"I am sure they will not be too long. May I… may I introduce to you our mutual friend… Mr Tom Caruthers."

Tom's hand was offered automatically, and he was grinning inside at the thought of Anne introducing him to anyone, landlady or otherwise.

"Good afternoon, Mrs McKenzie. Thank you for, ah, allowing Anne to receive me."

The good lady's face broke into a smile.

"It's no bother, I'm sure," she responded in her soft Scottish burr. "And good welcome to you, Mr Caruthers. Have you travelled far today?"

"From PEI, ma'am," he answered, glancing meaningfully at Anne.

"Well, it is sure merry company when you young Islanders get together. My friend and Miss Diana's great aunt, Miss Josephine Barry, did give me fair warning, I must say. Well, Miss Shirley, I will start on the tea, but if you would please keep the sitting room door ajar till Miss Diana returns."

"Yes of course, Mrs McKenzie," Anne's pale face shot through with color, though Tom studiously ignored it, assailed by the memory of another long ago tea service in another parlour, clenching his teeth against the thought, and hoped it was not something tarnishing Anne's recollections at this moment.

Anne directed him through to a very pleasant sitting room, complete with pretty furnishings and an inviting fire. They stood awkwardly before the partly open door, and he finally remembered himself, offering his roses.

"For you, Anne," his voice was huskier than intended, and had dropped an octave in the moments since his greeting to Mrs McKenzie.

Anne stared at the flowers and then up at him, her expression one of wistful delight.

"Oh, Tom, thank you. They're lovely!" she cradled them reverently. "You… you guessed at my favourite color."

He smiled shyly at this. "Pink… seemed right for you, somehow," he managed, his throat dry.

"Despite the hair?" she smiled back, her tone wry.

"Well, your hair looks pretty well nut brown in this light," he joked faithfully, invoking her old standard hope, and the surprised bubble of laughter from her was a music to him.

"Tom Caruthers!" she took a swipe at him with her free arm, making him chuckle. "We'd better sit down. You've grown so tall I'm getting a crick in my neck just looking up at you."

His eyes twinkled at this. "I was always tall you know, Anne."

"Well yes," she parried, "but that's no excuse."

They laughed quietly together as they sat on the sofa, the hopeful stabs at humour a welcome relief from their tension. Anne's eyes roamed over his face.

"Is this real? Is this actually happening?" she asked breathlessly.

"I've…I've been asking myself the same."

"Did you… have a good journey?" she struggled for a question.

"Yes… and no," he admitted, sheepishly. "I, er, always get sick on the ferry."

"Oh, Tom, no! That's awful!"

"It's me and Charlie clutching the outside railing, I guess. Or so I've heard; I've never travelled with him. Ah, that is…Charlie Sloane…" his brow furrowed mid explanation. "But then you know him, don't you? You know all of them."

"Yes…" she nodded, amazed.

'That is fantastic… and so strange…" he gave a puzzled smile.

"I know…" she acknowledged ruefully.

"You and Diana have become good friends? You know that she gave me your letter?"

"Yes…" Anne's eyes cast down. "Diana has been wonderful. She… she knows all of it, Tom. She's the only one who does."

He struggled for composure. " _All_ of it?"

"More or less…" Anne's cheeks pinkened again. "Or as much as I could bear to tell her."

The memory intruded cruelly; having Anne beside him made the old nightmare hideous and vivid, almost alive, like a monster long buried come back to life. He reached for her hand instinctively, and felt her pale palm press into his.

"I saw Martha, once," he ventured, his voice uneven.

"You _did?_ " that brought her depthless grey eyes up to meet his. " _How?_ "

Tom swallowed carefully. "I went back to Hopetown every year, from when I was about fifteen or so, to visit my mother's grave… just the trip in a day, there and back. I… I went to the asylum, once, when I was eighteen. When… when I was sure that…"

"They couldn't touch you," Anne finished quietly.

He swallowed again. "Yes," he agreed shortly. "Once no one had legal claim over me anymore. Because… you probably remember… I had no papers signed. I was never formally adopted."

"Yes," Anne's voice had become harder. "They rather impressed that upon me. Or at least, Mrs Cadbury did."

"Mrs Cadbury has quite a bit to answer for," his tone was equally dark. "And yet…"

"And yet…" Anne faltered. "I can't blame her. She was trying to protect us, in her way."

There was a pause. "Well…" he blew out a breath. "She's not at the asylum anymore. Not Matron or anyone. Just Cook and Martha. Martha was due to be married when I saw her."

"Oh, how lovely!" Anne smiled hugely, and then bit her lip. "That makes… that makes me feel slightly better, to know that she might be happy."

Tom nodded, looking down at her hand in his. "It's why you didn't write. Mrs Cadbury and… all of it. I know that."

"You do?" Anne's voice caught on the question. "Because, Tom, I was never sure if you thought that I just forgot you or…"

He squeezed her hand, offering the reassurance of today and times past. "It's all right, Anne. Martha sent on your letter to me. It was… I can't tell you… what a difference it made. Just to hear from you that once. I know you never forgot about me. I never forgot about _you_ , either."

Her tears watered their joined hands, and when Mrs McKenzie found them, it was to see young Miss Shirley sobbing in this new visitor's arms, his own kind, pale blue eyes betrayingly moist.

"Now Miss Shirley," the older lady clucked, not unsympathetically. "Haven't we had enough of all those tears this week?"

"Sorry, Mrs McKenzie," Anne gulped, somewhat contrite, avoiding the query in his look to her. _Anne had been crying all week?_

Anne busied herself with the distraction of arranging the tea, composing herself anew with every anecdote about Diana's plum puffs and other kitchen near calamities.

"Marilla is known for her plum puffs, actually…" he offered carefully.

"Mar- Miss Cuthbert?"

"Yes… she's an excellent cook. Most women on the Island are. They're quite noted for it."

"Well, she certainly did a good job with you. You're the picture of health, Tom. Just an I imagined you to be. You've grown up so fine and strong and …" her words faltered, but her eyes continued their admiring assessment. "Your mother would have been so proud of the man you've become."

He was annoyed, but unsurprised, to feel himself blush severely.

"That's… that's really… very generous of you, Anne. I just… well, I hope that…"

"Yes?"

"No. Never mind," he shifted uncomfortably, thinking he might self combust.

"Tom…?" she nudged with gentle encouragement.

"Well, I just thought… I hoped that… not to put words into your mouth or anything but… that you would, well, be proud of me, too."

If he had turned he would have seen her delighted, fond grin.

"I am _enormously_ proud of you, Thomas Caruthers, Esquire. More than I can ever express to you."

His small smile broke through the surface of his embarrassment.

"It goes doubly for you, Anne," he murmured, taking great interest in the steaming liquid she had passed to him.

He glanced back to see her brows raised in question.

"That is…" he struggled anew, "you yourself have turned out… well, tall and stylish and… beautiful."

Anne's face morphed to crimson.

"A teacher, and eventually a college graduate. I'm so proud of you too, Anne."

"If you put your mind to it, you can accomplish anything... I guess. Thank you, Tom. That means the world to me."

There was a very long pause. Anne drank her tea as he drank his, revived and emboldened by the warm, fragrant liquid. "I can actually see you as a teacher. You were always very good with the younger children, reading to them and instructing."

She laughed gently. "I think you mean I was very good at bossing them! _And_ you!"

"You only bossed me about once," he risked a sly smile to her.

She considered this for a moment. "Ugh! The Headless Horseman!" she groaned. "Not one of my better ideas."

He was laughing warmly now. "No, but it turned into one of my better memories…"

"Oh, Tom, I can still picture you, galloping about the dormitory, unable to see a thing!"

"I couldn't see anything, that's for certain, but I could hear everyone's screams well enough!"

Oh, Tom, don't!" Anne laughed too, her expression horrified. "It was a nightmare! The younger ones couldn't sleep for days!"

" _I_ couldn't sleep for days!" he retorted. "Once Matron and her birch switch finished with us. My backside killed me."

"Tom! Stop it!" Anne was wiping tears of laughter this time, and had to relinquish her tea. "No wonder I could never use the cane on my students! I tell you, the Girl's Home at Summerside would never have allowed that sort of business. No shenanigans there, let me tell you!"

Her giggles faded even as Tom himself grew quiet.

"Summerside?" he queried, his sandy brows knotted together and his look suddenly searching. "The Girls Home they sent you to was in _Summerside?_ On the Island?"

She looked back to him. There was something in his tone that had become a little strangled.

"Yes…" she answered uncertainly.

"You were on the Island, the other side of PEI, _all this time?"_

His handsome fair face had paled, all remembered merriment subsided, and his light blue eyes were aghast.

"Yes…"

"I don't believe it," he murmured, placing his tea down carefully. He stood up abruptly, hands in pockets, and began pacing the room agitation.

"I searched for you, Anne!" he explained bleakly. "I wrote to nearly half a dozen Girls Homes, all over the mainland. Without any luck. You had just disappeared into thin air. I never thought… I never thought… they would send you to the Island, too."

"Tom!" she gasped, scurrying to explain. "It wasn't deliberately that way. It's just that my mentor and my friend, Katherine, the one whom I wrote to you about… well, she was an acquaintance of Mrs Cadbury's. She worked at the Home as a tutor. It was a better establishment than most, with a good record in educating the girls there. Mrs Cadbury _did_ try to make it up to me, in her way. I would have ended up a serving girl if I'd stayed at Hopetown."

"You could have ended up safe and cared for on a _farm,_ Anne…" he choked out, having stopped before the fire, looking away from her. "You had to fight so hard for all your opportunities. I just got mine handed to me."

"That's not true, Tom!"

"Isn't it? All the chances you've had you've made yourself. Because your best one was stolen from you!"

There were long minutes of shocked silence. _Well_ , he thought despairingly. _This is it, then._ The one thing he regretted, the one thing that still ate away at him. If she couldn't forgive him for it then there was no future for him that could feature her.

"You think you took my chance from me?" her voice, soft and steady, floated across to him.

"You _know_ I did, Anne," he stated gruffly, staring into the flames, tall body arched in agony.

He heard a rustle of skirts, and then her hand was on his arm.

"Look at me, Tom."

"Anne…" he protested, though he reluctantly turned to face her.

"You listen to me, Tom Caruthers," she scolded in a way that would have made any schoolmarm impressed, and her eyes grew greener under his gaze, sparking with new fire with every word.

"You didn't _ever_ take my chance from me. It was never mine to have or yours to take. It was always meant to belong to you, just like you now belong to Green Gables and Avonlea and the land and livelihood you have safeguarded for the Cuthberts. I like to think I'm capable of many things but I would never have been able to run a farm…" she paused, taking a heavy breath.

"Instead there was a different path for me. It wasn't any better or worse, just different. But I've had my own opportunities too, and I've been fortunate in them, just as you have. I might never have become a teacher without going to the Girls Home. I might never have ended up here at Redmond, or met up with Diana and the others which led me again to you, with my own choices and experiences and _chances_ under my belt. So you had better be mindful of that, and not ever mention it again. I won't hear of this guilt from you _ever,_ Tom! Can you really think that any of that matters anyway after what you did for me?"

She shook before him, a slight pale taper of her own fire; her eyes blazing with a passion that nearly made him stagger backwards.

"Say it after me, Tom," she demanded as of old. "We _both_ took our chances. We both took our chances and _used them well._ "

His eyes burned in their sockets. _Damn it, he would not cry in front of her._

"Tom!"

His throat worked painfully, trying to dredge up the words.

" _We both took our chances and used them well,"_ he rasped.

"That's better," her tone was still schoolmarmishly firm, though her expression softened to all its remembered loveliness, like the petals of a flower unfolding towards him.

His strong body had carried many burdens in his young life, but this was one he was all too willing to put down. He felt the sudden release of the weight, and his throat throbbed even as his slumped shoulders squared themselves.

He could deny her nothing in that moment, not even his tears.

They held each other as they had as children all those years ago; each a lone buffer seeking to protect the other from the world.

This time it was not Mrs McKenzie but Diana and Fred, flushed and smiling from their walk, who found them complete in the comfort of their compromising embrace.

* * *

Fred shook his hand in greeting and clapped him on the back, his expression guarded but his tone warm, attempting to cover his clear surprise over the scene they had just stumbled upon.

"We finally got you to Kingsport," he offered. "Or at least, Anne here did."

"It's lovely to see you, Tom," Diana interjected, looking from Tom to Anne and definitely not risking looking at Fred. "I'm so pleased you and Anne were able to meet again after all this time."

"Thank you, Fred, Diana," Tom was still flummoxed from having had them come across he and Anne in their close encounter, and he hoped the emotion of that moment wasn't quite as evident to them as he still felt it himself.

"Thank you both, for allowing us to meet up here," Anne added, her grey eyes very red rimmed now, and Diana went across the room to her to take her hand reassuringly.

"Are the plum puffs edible?" Diana asked with a smile.

"We presume so!" Anne forced a little laugh. "We haven't quite gotten to them yet!"

"Well, I'll arrange a fresh pot of tea, and we can all decide for ourselves."

They sat down as an amiable if somewhat atypical foursome, chatting about safe topics far removed from the conversation that had proceeded them. Tom was characteristically quiet but not overly so, and Anne was there to gamely add details and diversions in her animated way. Tom found himself looking at her in some wonderment, as if she were an enchanted creature who had just flit past him and stopped to entertain him awhile; a fairy sprite; one false move and she would be darting off with an apologetic smile and a flash of silver wings to match her eyes.

Fred looked on at this looking, frowning imperceptibly to himself.

"How long are you able to be with us, Tom?" Diana asked after a lull in conversation.

"Ah, I leave on Wednesday," he offered, catching Anne's delighted grin.

"You must come and see all of Redmond, Tom!" Anne insisted.

"You are welcome to come to the business college too, to sit in," Fred offered. "We are going through some new bookkeeping methods this week that might interest you."

He broke out into an incredulous smile, shaking his blonde head.

"Traipsing about not one but _two_ colleges. Great Scott! I'll begin to get ideas!"

"Well, I can add my cooking school to that, but I don't think that would interest you _quite_ so much!" Diana joked wryly, leading to a loyal defence from Fred and admiration of her plum puffs all round.

"I've not got much to show you back in Avonlea but a few cows and some farm machinery," Tom lamented.

"I've never seen a cow up close," Anne mused, giving him a careful, encouraging smile.

"You should come to Avonlea!" Diana steepled her hands together, as if struck by some divine inspiration. "You could come for Easter to Orchard Slope with me and stay the entire term break!"

"With you? To Avonlea?" Anne wondered a little fearfully.

"Oh, Anne! _Do_ say you'll come! The weather will have turned by then and spring on the Island is quite lovely! We can call on Jane and Ruby and show you all our old haunts! And all the cows you like!"

Tom cleared his throat. "And G-Green Gables…" he almost stammered out the name. "All at Green Gables would be so very happy to meet you. To have you there… at last."

Anne's eyes swept to his at this, auburn brows raised in silent question, and Tom gave a sad little smile and a firm nod.

"If you… if you are sure, Diana… thank you. That is so generous. I'd be so delighted to come."

That set Diana off for another enthusiastic ten minutes, until it was time for both Fred and Tom to take their leave. Tom and Anne left the courting couple in the sitting room and made their way out to the front door.

"I won't be taking up too much of your time?" Tom queried, a frown of uncertainty marring his strong, handsome features. "To see you tomorrow and then again with everyone here on Sunday?"

"We have lost rather too much time," Anne's look was resolute. "I don't want to take another second of it for granted." She quirked a lovely smile at him. "I've been waiting a long time to be able to say it, but I will see you tomorrow, Tom."

His grin was blinding.

"I shall see you tomorrow, Anne."

The man who was definitely Tom Caruthers shrugged on his coat, took Diana's hand in thanks as she came out to farewell him, held Anne's hand rather a while longer, squeezing it tightly, and walked out with Fred down the path, through the gate and out again to the street.

"That seemed to go very well then, Miss Anne," Diana gave a pleased smile as they watched both men depart.

"Oh, Diana…" Anne sighed, shaking her head. "I'd say pinch me, but if I've dreamt this I don't want to wake up!"

"You goose!" Diana grasped her hand, the one Tom had held, still warm from his touch. "It's about time something good came of this week for you."

"Will it be awkward, do you think? Having both Tom and Gilbert here for afternoon tea on Sunday?" Anne gnawed her bottom lip pensively.

"Oh, I'm counting on it!" Diana responded cheekily. "Anything to stop Jane going on about the wedding!"

* * *

Everything was laid out for Sunday afternoon tea as prettily as the very first time Anne had attended this now weekly event at Diana's, though she had never viewed the occasion as a resident, even a temporary one. She had assisted Diana with all manner of preparations, including manifold pastries, and had made her own light, generously proportioned scones; the one talisman of her time at the asylum she had been pleased to carry with her, even though the memory was tinged by the fact the instruction from Cook had only ever come about because of the hurt and hate the Inspector had directed at Martha and she and Tom.

With a smile today, however, she accompanied the scones with a pretty glass dish filled with plum jam.

"Anne! You shouldn't waste your gift on us!" Diana had chided.

"It's not a waste! It will be the perfect way to honour friendship today, old _and_ new." _And the perfect way to merge the asylum and Green Gables,_ Anne contemplated.

Tom had indeed met her yesterday, for a walk around Kingsport, ending in the great park in an unconscious echo of Diana and Fred's travails. They had talked easily and without the heightened emotion of the Friday afternoon; likewise their awkwardness had melted away as the frosty ground thawing under the weak late winter sun. She had met Tom at the door, but was waylaid by his cargo, which he offered up with a searching smile, his pale blue eyes carefully gauging at her reaction.

"From Marilla," he explained, holding out two jars to her, and Anne's eyes widened at this unexpected bounty.

"For _me?_ "

"She wanted for you to have… some of Green Gables with you."

His heart, already endangered, might have fractured at the look she gave him, contemplating this.

"They… they know about _it all_ too, Anne. All the crazy, confused, miserable circumstances of that day… It was one of the first things I told them, that I wanted to make clear… I half hoped that… well, when I first arrived, that I might be permitted to go and bring you back with me."

"Oh, Tom… I would have never expected that you would have been able to…"

"I know," he could give a chagrined smile now, though the old pain of this confession still broke through it. "I realised that soon enough. It didn't stop me hoping, though, and wishing it, all the same."

"I think when I am able to visit and scare off all your cows with my chatter that they will be so relieved it was _you_ whom they met off the train."

"Well, I'll be able to meet _you_ soon, off the train, at any rate. You _have_ to come to visit now; I have witnesses." His blue eyes held her grey ones, twinkling with the tease, and deeper still, she noted the new light of his vow in them.

* * *

Gilbert made a glum escort that Sunday as he walked Pris and Phil over from the college to Diana's; the only mercy shown him in this otherwise godforsaken week had been Charlie begging off from the expedition with a bad cold, which Gilbert knew was more likely owing to his reluctance to face himself, Anne or both in light of recent events than any actual physical ailment.

He had been preoccupied with increasingly objectionable fantasies the past two days relating to Anne and her tow-head visitor; mostly involving them both disappearing together into the night never to be seen again; the irony of such imaginings not lost on him. He had slept fitfully, worn from his week of making things right for them anew, only to have everything unravel just at the point when the tapestry of their togetherness seemed woven so tightly he could not imagine anything renting it again. He seemed destined to be almost-but-not-quite with Anne; Tom's visit and all it meant coming at the worst possible time; a cruel intrusion, as if a blundering guest had happened on the party too late, spoiling the gathering irrevocably.

Was Tom the blundering guest now, or was _he?_ Was Gilbert himself now interrupting a song that had begun between Anne and Tom long ago, and he coming in not at the beginning but at the last verse?

This metaphor made him scowl darkly to himself, and Phil noted his look with a sharp, brown-eyed gaze.

"Gilbert," she murmured to him on one side, whilst Pris appeared lost in her own musings on his other, "You won't do yourself any favours if you start the visit looking bad tempered."

"That's because I _am_ bad tempered, Phil," he answered in a low voice. "You've met him now. It's all Pris could talk about for the first ten minutes when I collected you."

"He _does_ seem to be rather a dear," Phil couldn't help the tease. "And I'm still musing upon whom he most reminds me of; _Cronus_ for the farming or _Helios_ for the hair."

"Helios had long, _curly_ hair as I recall," Gilbert rejoined darkly.

"Well, honey, you'd know!" Phil gave a broad, indulgent smile.

When he didn't change his countenance, she tried another tack.

"I think you need to work on rising above this, Gilbert," Phil warned. "I don't know if the jealously quite becomes you."

"I'm not jealous!" he whispered furiously. "I'm put out and annoyed and frustrated and crazy, that's all!"

"Oh, well, that's all right, then."

"Haven't I a right to be? Will no one try to see this from my perspective?"

"I _do_ , Gilbert. I sympathise more than you know. But he is her _friend._ And _yours._ It would be like Anne stomping her foot and saying that _we_ couldn't be friends, or becoming unreasonable because you once took Diana to a dance back in Avonlea."

Gilbert frowned, considering.

"It would be easier if I didn't know him," he sighed. "And if he wasn't so damned _decent_."

"This is your problem, Gilbert. Stand tall... have some respect for yourself. Aren't you a nice, decent person as well? Because Anne certainly believes you are. And I've seen occasional evidence of it, too," she smiled archly.

He shook his head despairingly. "You don't understand what I'm up against, Phil. He spends the _entire year_ whittling away, making toys for all the poor local children for Christmas."

Phil bit back a laugh, her eyes shining merrily. "Oh, goodness!"

" _Exactly."_

"Toys?" Pris drifted back into the conversation. "Gilbert, are you telling Phil about the toys Tom Caruthers makes for the children in Avonlea? Oh, they're darling, Phil! An Avonlea boy moved to Carmody when I was teaching there, and he brought in the sweetest little toy soldier you ever saw."

Phil was now convulsing with the effort not to cackle hysterically. Gilbert rolled his eyes to the heavens.

"You're right, Gilbert," Phil managed after a moment, her tone drolly amused. "There's no hope for you whatsoever!"

* * *

From the opposite end of the attractive, treelined street, Gilbert noted a tall, fair, broad-shouldered man approach them with long, newly-determined strides. Gilbert watched Tom Caruthers with the observant eye of someone who hoped to one day train to use such skills in the art and science of deduction and diagnosis; he was sure to be the equal to his Uncle Dave, at any rate. And what he saw rather made his heart sink. The shy diffidence he had counted on had evaporated, it seemed, on the cool Kingsport air. Or perhaps, rather, in the wake of certain Kingsport company. Here was Tom, as calmly confident and easily obliging as he had ever seen him.

"Gilbert!" Tom's hand and smile were outstretched the moment they met at the gate.

"Wait a minute, don't I know you from somewhere?" Gilbert grinned gamely. "Hello, Tom. Good to see you. And I believe you know these two lovely ladies accompanying me."

"Indeed we have met. Hello Miss Gordon, Miss Grant." He nodded politely, smile unwavering.

"Pris was just commenting on how much she likes your suit, Tom," Gilbert offered blandly, perhaps fortunate to not be quite within whacking distance.

"Er, thank you, Miss Grant. I hope people won't tire of the same one. I tried to travel light."

Priscilla could only beam at Tom, blushing, and throw a menacing, daggered glance at Gilbert, which held appropriate promise of an upbraiding later.

"Shall we?" Phil rescued, indicating the house.

At the door there was some confusion over who should knock, and in the end it was Phil, yet again, who made the decision, shaking her head ruefully.

Unfortunately it was Miss Shirley, prettily flushed with no doubt an array of conflicting emotions, who was presented with the sight of the four of them crowding Diana's doorway.

"Hello, Anne," the two men, baritone and bass, chorused in their eagerness.

 _Saints preserve us,_ thought Phil despairingly.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

As with the last chapter, my title is from _**Anne of the Island**_ **(Ch. 3)**

" _ **Miss Hannah gravely told me we could have 'young gentleman callers' two evenings in the week, if they went away at a reasonable hour; and Miss Ada asked me, smiling, please to be sure they didn't sit on her beautiful cushions."**_

*Thomas Hardy _'The Voice'_ from _Satires of Circumstance_ (1914).

As previously mentioned when referencing Hardy, I have been careful to not have Tom directly quote the poems, as they are all published after our narrative takes place, and are instead used to assist in directing us to Tom's inner feelings.


	21. Chapter 21 The Deeps Had Been Stirred

_With a thank you to all the new readers who have found this story and who have been kind to leave their lovely, encouraging comments._

 _Additionally, this week this chapter is dedicated to_ _ **Excel Aunt,**_ _who was the very first reviewer for this story (and others!) many moons ago; who always looks below the 'deeps'; and whose aura is absolutely painted prairie yellow x_

* * *

 **Chapter Twenty One**

 **The Deeps Had Been Stirred**

* * *

 _ **Summerside Home for Girls**_

 _ **Summerside, PEI**_

 _ **August 1883**_

" _Miss Shirley, are you really set to leave us?" little Martha Mayerling anchored her eyes on Anne's, her imploring enquiry made all the more wistful by the sweetness of her pale, freckled countenance and the bell-like voice that tinkled, like a chime in the wind. She clasped her hands together as if to engage in prayer, and her soulful blue, green-flecked eyes were shadowed._

 _Anne looked down at her charge and fought a curious composite of emotions, made more difficult, as ever, by the feeling she was looking at herself, years ago, as if through a time-warped mirror. Certainly Martha, with her evocative name of another remembered Martha, had easily wound herself around her affections; if the bookish leanings hadn't done it, or the pale face interspersed with freckles or those eyes, then the definite auburn hue threaded through her brown hair would have sealed proceedings irrevocably._

" _I'm afraid so, Martha," Anne's voice hadn't intended its huskiness. "I received my letter from Redmond College a month ago. It's all the way to Nova Scotia, so it means I'll have to spend the day travelling to get there, on the train and then a ferry and then another train, and I'll need to stay close by. It won't be like it has been, with me teaching here in Summerside and instructing you in the evenings or on weekends."_

 _Anne paused to let this information germinate; Martha was younger than she herself had been, not quite ten, and had seen nothing of the world but the walls of the Girls' Home, barely remembering a time when she had been the youngest in a family of five, all succumbing to scarlet fever but she._

" _Will you be teaching there, too?" came the considered reply._

" _No, I shall be studying like you will. Stories and poetry and such as you are now, though I might get away with no more geometry," she added with a smile._

" _But you know all that already!"_

" _Oh, Martha, there is always more to know and more to learn! Or else life would be very boring and repetitive, going over the same old things. And as you become older you want to learn other things, or learn about them in new ways…"_

" _And you can't do that here, with us?" the clear voice wavered._

 _Anne swallowed carefully. "I'm afraid not, darling."_

 _Martha fingered the old copy of Tennyson, and Anne searched her mind for a verse or phrase or a line that she could leave with her. She was too young for 'The Lady of Shalott' and Anne hadn't ever gotten over her own old aversion to 'The May Queen'. She had already gone around, having made personalised bookmarks for all the girls, crafting them from the stiffest good quality paper she had been able to requisition, and using her very best pen to create a series of ornate swirls and designs, threading a specially chosen ribbon through the top of each, color coded, of course. Martha's had been the green of a new spring leaf, carrying the hope and promise of the season._

" _Will you be happy there, at your college? Happier than here?"_

 _The astute question caught Anne by surprise, and she was all too ready to deny the observation; that she had been perfectly happy here at Summerside, or at the very least content; that true happiness was a determined state of mind as much as a dependence on external circumstances; that little things could bring happiness even when bigger things didn't. That the line between happiness, or not, was delineated on constantly shifting sands._

" _I think… that I might sometimes be sad there, too, though I hope overall to be as happy as I can," came the answer as honestly as she dared muster. "Because being happy or sad are often feelings side by side to one another, and sometimes we even feel them in the same moment; like I will, to leave you all here."_

 _She couldn't bear to go further; to the idea that happiness wasn't an entitlement but a gift; even something that, to be true happiness, might even have to be deserved or earned or won to be fully appreciated. That happiness might not be recognised unless there was some experience of life without it. That the bitter and the sweet were so often tasted together._

 _Tennyson might not have the answer today, but Longfellow would. There, then, was a man who knew of happiness and of sadness, indeed. The sweetness followed by the bitter tang._

" _I will miss you so very much, Miss Shirley," Martha's voice wobbled betrayingly._

" _I shall miss you too, darling. But I'll be back for visits during holidays, and Miss Brooke will be able to inform me of your wonderful progress until I can check it again for myself."_

 _Struck by the moment, Anne crossed over to the wide bookshelf, knowing the tome and its placement from memory._

" _Here, my Martha," Anne began. "Mr Longfellow wrote a poem a long time ago. It's entitled 'A Rainy Day' and it certainly sums up all we've been talking about. There's a little verse that's part of the poem…" Anne flicked through, "… here. This is the part I want you to remember…_

' _Be still, sad heart! And cease repining;_

 _Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;_

 _Thy fate is the common fate of all'_

 _Into each life some rain must fall,_

 _Some days must be dark and dreary.'"_ *

 _Those wide self-same eyes blinked up at her._

" _I will copy this onto another bookmark for you, and then you may take it out whenever you might be sad, about anything, to remember that your sadness won't last, love. You may even choose the ribbon this time."_

 _This was an offer that required serious contemplation._

" _I will choose yellow, then," Martha announced. "For the sun, and for happiness."_

" _An excellent choice, darling."_

" _Whenever I think of you I will think of yellow, too."_

 _Anne rounded the table to envelop the young girl in her arms. "That is lovely! I certainly like the idea of yellow, though I've never been able to wear it."_

" _I'm sure I won't be able to, either," Martha lamented, almost proudly._

 _Anne smiled in sisterly understanding, beginning to gather her things. She would need to pack soon for Kingsport; the quaking in her belly at the thought of it only outmatched by her deliberately calm exterior. She hoped that her words to Martha would carry some of their own wisdom for herself; that her own experiences there wouldn't need such a verse to help bolster her; that over the sea and back in a town she might find a friend… or at least a new one… to offset any of her own misgivings and 'repining'._

" _I hope you are happy more times than you are sad at your college, Miss Shirley," Martha offered generously._

* * *

Anne hadn't dared wear yellow, even still, but she had worn her green blouse, for young Martha, _and_ for herself. If anyone had cut her open they would have seen her insides colored rich ochre for sure; bursting as she was with her own happiness to look around this boisterous gathering and see every person here a friend, of both recent times and of long ago. And that they should all be friends together, with she _and_ Tom already, like every upset and injustice and hurt and horror had led them to this longed for moment; this happiness so hard-won. She was a jack-in-the-box barely able to settle to her own tea, so busy was she in seeing to everyone else's; she could hardly manage to sit in the one spot for more than mere moments at a time, unable to properly gather her giddy thoughts.

And everyone was on fine form; Pris and Ruby, flanking Tom either side and so wonderfully attentive; Phil engaging Gilbert with her disarming chatter; Diana and Fred sitting wonderfully close together and lapsing periodically into sweet murmured asides meant for their ears alone; Jane merrily prattling to Anne about her wedding, and finding such lovely interest and reassurance in Anne's occasional questions and warm, if distracted, responses that she truly lamented her wedding party couldn't be extended to _four_ bridemaids after all.

Occasionally Anne would catch Tom's eye, and his look and wry smile echoed hers; a clear, shared thought along the lines of _how on earth did we get here?_ with a definite further dose of _can you really believe it?_ Tom was looking very, very well; the dark blue so suited him, as did the new air of… confidence? Certainty? Contentment? It was a pleasure to be able to study him; to note all the subtle changes that time and experience had wrought; to see the strong color to him, the health and vigour and vitality… if she hadn't been so happy she would have fallen about in grateful tears, so wonderful it was to see him transformed from that pale, brave, broken boy.

And Gilbert… Gilbert, by contrast, looked worn and worrisome after their trying week; his handsomeness and affability protected him like a cloak he was relying on to keep him warm, but had forgotten how the draft would still come if caught suddenly. His usually laughing hazel eyes were thoughtful; his smile more measured; his demeanour one who was trying with all his might to put on a good show. And Anne couldn't fault him; she was not insensible to the difficulty of their current circumstances or the strangeness, to outsiders, of the nature of her relationship with Tom. She longed to ease his discomfort but knew not how; she had worried for Tom in this company, but had underestimated how well they thought of him, and perhaps should have realised that, regardless, he would take this in his long, careful stride like all else; what could life now throw at either of them, really, that they could not contend with, given all they had seen whilst still children?

But _Gilbert…_

"How _did_ you and Tom first know each other, Anne?" Jane enquired from beside her, her voice carrying across the room due to an unfortunately timed lull in conversation, though Anne imagined that there were several others curious for the answer. Anne was dragged from all thoughts of Gilbert; she had naturally anticipated the question, and was determinedly sticking to her edited, loose version of the facts.

"As you may remember, Jane, I was at the orphanage at Hopetown for a time," she began carefully, "and Tom had lived locally. He chopped wood up and down the street for households and the orphanage too; it was one of the ways I began to know him. And then… ah…"

"… I came to the orphanage after my mother died and before I was adopted by the Cuthberts," Tom's deep bass voice continued the narrative. "It wasn't… the longest time, but it made quite an impression," he smiled at her with a sweet knowingness, "and so did Anne."

"What a pity you lost touch," Ruby shook her fair head.

"It was," Tom admitted solemnly.

"But…" Jane, ever bound by facts, was trying to puzzle out obvious discrepancies, "you knew that Tom had gone to Avonlea, Anne. You didn't contact him till you met all of us?"

Anne reddened, caught by her half truths.

"The asylum didn't encourage… contact, once you had left it, so that both parties had a chance to move on," Tom rescued, but then added firmly, "I knew that Anne was _always_ my friend, regardless of how long our separation was."

The quiet fervour of this declaration danced on some invisible line between friendship and more; Anne gave this pronouncement a smile of blushing delight; both Gilbert and Priscilla met it with expressions of some consternation; and the rest of the room fell into an impressed silence.

"Well, here's to friends in all their forms," Phil exclaimed brightly. "Particularly those who bake as well as you, Diana. _I never cooked anything in my life except a gingerbread and it was a failure._ ** It is not where my talents lie, I'm afraid."

"Thank you, Phil. It's always a pleasure to have friends to bake for. Though everyone here is a wonderful help, and the lovely scones of course are Anne's," Diana smiled in acknowledgement.

"And the plum jam is from Green Gables," added Anne, bestowing a beaming glance at Tom.

Gilbert, who had demolished three scones with gusto, knowing most definitely they were Anne's, and polishing them off with generous dollops of plum jam and cream, the origins of the spreads to which he had been cavalierly unknowing, emitted something that might have been a suppressed groan, shuffling uncomfortably in his seat.

Jane, pleased enough with that account of events, pressed Tom on another subject.

"Have you been convinced to come to Kingsport to study yourself, Tom?" she asked.

Tom flushed. "The college is very impressive – Anne showed me around today. But I am afraid I am… well… not a natural student. I enjoy reading and, er, studying of sorts in my own time, though the farm takes up a fair amount of it."

"I should suspect a lot of your spare time is spent on your gifts for the local children, Tom," Pris reminded with a smile.

"Gifts?" Anne enquired.

"You didn't know, Anne? Oh, they are delightful! Tom has been whittling wooden toys for years. They are so very good. I saw an example when I was teaching in Carmody."

"Figurines for the children?" Anne swallowed, looking to Pris briefly and then across to Tom in question.

"They _are_ beautiful, Anne," Diana interjected. "Tom whittles enough for the children from poor families living locally and Reverend and Mrs Allan distribute them at Christmas."

"You didn't tell me _that_ ," Anne chided quietly to Tom, her voice wavering.

He shrugged. "Miss Grant and Diana are being too kind," he flushed beet red.

"Tom is being modest, Anne. They're lovely," Ruby chimed loyally. "You must have him show you."

"I know myself how lovely they are," Anne's eyes were shining now, her voice low with emotion, and her look to Tom clear across the room was of unadulterated pride and admiration.

"May I clear these for you?" Phil suddenly asked without ceremony, taking assorted empty plates and handing another hastily to Gilbert. "Here, Gilbert, would you help me?"

She did not wait for his reply, but appropriately laden, led the way out into the kitchen, Anne's eyes following them with concern.

"Excuse me, I should help them," she explained to the party, and absently took through a serving platter and her own cup and saucer in their wake.

She came upon Gilbert leaned hunched over the bench, staring out the window, clutching it with his large hands as if for dear life, and Phil speaking in low tones beside him, her look one of concern. Her brown eyes flashed to Anne as she saw her enter.

"Phil? Gilbert?" Anne questioned.

Gilbert straightened at the sound of her voice, and Phil gave her a quizzical smile.

"Honey, one of your guests is just feeling a wee bit out of sorts. Perhaps you could take them through out the back for a little fresh air?"

She gave a warning look to Gilbert before passing back before Anne, raising an eyebrow and leaving them as she headed again to the sitting room.

"Gilbert?" Anne asked more tentatively.

He half turned to her, shoving hands deep into his pockets.

"I'm sorry, Anne. I could say I have a headache but that wouldn't be the truth."

"Oh, Gilbert…" she murmured at his bleak expression.

"I don't mean to be a dampener on your afternoon. Or on… your _reunion._ " The last word was heaved on a sigh.

"I'm sorry, Gilbert. I don't mean to be so caught up…"

"No, that's it. I know you don't," Gilbert rubbed at his face dejectedly. "And neither does _he_ to be fair _._ But it's happening all the same, Anne. I can see it already."

"Are you… disappointed in me?"

"No, Anne! Of course not! I'm disappointed in _myself._ Maybe it's an offshoot of being an only child… I've never had to learn to _share…"_ he gave a self-mocking smile. "I'm finding it hard to share _you._ "

"Now _that_ makes me sound like a rag doll," she teased gently, taking slow steps towards him.

He chuckled darkly. "I'm sorry Anne. I didn't mean any offence there."

"None taken. Although if we are talking about sharing, I have a name for you; Maisie Monroe."

"Anne that was _ages_ ago!" he blustered. "And I never had any feelings for her! I realised I didn't even _like_ her!"

"It was a long time till that realisation came… and in the meantime _we_ were friends and I still had to contend with the two of you together." Her look was soft as she arched a brow.

"You mean…" a hint of his old smile fluttered about his lips, "that you were _jealous_?" he was recovering his humour at the prospect.

"Gilbert, if we are talking about _jealousy_ I could rightly be jealous of every co-ed who has ever crossed your path! Not to mention all the girls back in Avonlea or at Queen's."

"Anne…" he hesitated, his dear face darkening. "I know it makes me appear _extremely_ shallow, but none of those girls mattered before you. Not in that way."

She was close enough to put a hand on his arm. "I know," she whispered, cheeks aflame, risking a look up at him.

" _Whoops!_ " there was a chuckle, and Jane stood awkwardly at the doorway, another serving platter in hand. With a knowing smile she deposited it on the nearest benchtop and scurried away again.

Gilbert rolled his eyes, though his demeanour was lighter. "Would you risk that fresh air with me for a few minutes, Anne?"

She nodded and they escaped through the back door from the kitchen to a little enclosed courtyard with a bench and some mostly-manicured bushes in freeflowing flowerbeds. They both blew on their hands at the sudden affront of the cool afternoon air, and then Gilbert took her hands in his, enclosing them firmly.

"I guess I am trying to talk about _trust_ ," Anne gulped, disconcerted by his warmth flooding her hands and all the way through her.

"Trust." Gilbert echoed.

"Do you… do you trust that I can be friends with you _and_ Tom?"

"Aren't _we_ a little more than _friends,_ Anne?" his baritone was low and very suggestive, as was the new gleam in those hazel eyes. Her own eyes widened at his tone, and he pushed his advantage by grazing one of his thumbs over the pulse at her wrist.

"Gil…" she murmured distractedly, and was rewarded by a delighted, wolfish smile.

"Say that again!" he demanded gleefully.

She flushed and stepped away from him, withdrawing herself and clasping her hands safely together.

"Behave yourself, Mr Blythe! I'm trying to have an important discussion with you!" her words were mock-stern, though her sheepish smile and the flash of green in her eyes betrayed her entirely.

"Yes, Miss Shirley," he batted back blandly, an infuriatingly smug expression breaking through.

"So, can you please stop scowling at the world and making yourself sick, and Phil worried for you, and just accept Tom is an important person in my life, as _you_ are?"

He crossed his arms in front of his chest, not in belligerence so much as seeking his own warmth.

"I will absolutely try," he assented. "Though it would help me greatly if he could find a new, more selfish hobby."

Anne tried not to reward this cheek with a smile, failing dismally.

"And it would help if I didn't think he was such a stand up fellow," Gilbert continued, more thoughtfully. "He makes the rest of us rather suffer in comparison, you know."

"Well, you could always rise to the challenge, Mr President of Freshman Year. Use _your_ power for good, too."

Gilbert raised his eyebrows, considering this, and nodded, chastened.

"I haven't forgotten what happened these last two weeks, Gilbert… or… what has happened the last few months," Anne ventured after a moment, her imploring grey-green gaze seeking his.

He swallowed audibly. "I feel a _but_ somewhere…"

" _But_ we have been both advised to be more circumspect about… our relationship. And let's face it, Gilbert, any more distractions and we might as well both pack our bags. It's been quite a challenge trying to catch up this week."

He frowned. "I know."

"We both have commitments and… well… we need to think of the future, too. And not just the present. There are those minor scholarships that were announced, too…"

"The Thorburn is already yours, Anne," he announced loyally.

"No it isn't," she smiled, shaking her head. "And neither is the science one for you. We need to refocus, Gilbert."

"I rather like what I'm focussed on _now_ ," the heat flooded his gaze.

Her cheeks burned anew.

"All right!" he shook his head, offering something approaching his old Blythe grin. "Yes, I know what you're saying, Anne. And there is a sad, depressing wisdom to it. But are you really saying what I think you're saying? Do you want to put _us_ on hold?"

The hurt had crept into his voice, much as he tried to muzzle it.

"For now…" she faltered. "I'm sorry, but I think… _yes._ "

He swallowed, and his look to her was tortured. "Your _feelings_ about…me. About _us._ Have _they_ changed?"

"No," she gave husky reply.

He nodded, his eyes burning her.

"That would be a resolute _no_ from me too, Anne."

She smiled and bit her lip. "I am very… pleased about that."

"It's just…" he struggled for the words. "That book on the shelf. I'd hate for it to get neglected or … _dusty._ "

Her heart was in her eyes at this. "No, Gilbert… nor would I."

" _You_ know…" he deliberately continued, his lips quirking. "For the spine to get all ragged and for the pages to be half falling out…"

She shook her head at him, smiling at his endeavours. "It is my favourite book, Gilbert. I would never let such a fate befall it."

Gilbert gave her a look of such unbridled longing she thought she might have to sit down. Instead his gaze softened, and he shoved his hands into his pockets, blowing out a long breath. "So we are circling back again, Anne…" he regarded her carefully. "What happens, then, at Easter?"

"Easter?" she echoed, puzzled.

"When you come to Avonlea," he broached gently.

'Avonlea?" she gulped.

"And pay several calls to Green Gables, I'm presuming?" his eyebrow was raised wryly, though his voice had turned to the consistency of gravel.

Anne searched his face again, flustered. "Gilbert…. I…."

"Fred mentioned it," he sighed heavily. "That Diana had invited you. While you were talking in there with Jane."

Anne bit her lip, the confusion welling inside of her.

"Yes…." She breathed. "That's right."

"It's just that… I had hoped… not that you could stay with _me,_ of course, but that…"

"Gilbert?"

"Well, that _I_ would have been the one to ask you to Avonlea," he muttered, reddening. "Though evidently I'm a little late to the party on that score."

"You _did_ ," Anne remembered, smiling at the memory. "There is an apple tree you wish to show me, I believe."

"You're right," he answered, brightening. "There _is._ "

Their shared look was long and full of meaning.

"I guess…" he sighed dramatically. "I could be _just friends_ with you until Easter, Anne Shirley. Though I give no guarantees whatsoever after that."

Her grin was sudden and wonderfully startling.

"I wouldn't want any, Gilbert Blythe," she parried a mite flirtatiously, and his appreciative warm chuckle followed her as they made their way back inside.

* * *

Anne and Tom sat side by side in the little pavilion in the park, late Tuesday afternoon, ahead of his leaving for Avonlea early the following morning. _To their left lay Kingsport, its roofs and spires dim in their shroud of violet smoke,_ anticipating a sunset less pallid than usual; _to their right lay the harbour,_ where _the water shimmered satin-smooth and silver grey._ *** All was quiet and restful and still; a sad and clamorous contradiction to Anne's heart, which pulsed painfully at the thought of the as-yet unspoken goodbye hovering about both their lips.

"It's very pretty here…" Tom ventured carefully, hoping he was capable of bland thoughts on the town, at the very least. "It… it will be nice for me to imagine you, walking the streets we've walked and… ah… going about your classes at the college."

"Yes…" Anne replied, voice catching. "And you've described Green Gables so well I feel I know it already, right down to the shutters and the cherry tree outside your window."

"It will suit me better when I can imagine you there, too," Tom declared in a low voice, and the tone of it reached out to coil around Anne's heart, squeezing it further.

"The term break is not so very long off, now…"

"No…"

They paused in awkward unison; a shared silent sigh.

"Anne…" Tom broached after a moment, his tongue trapped beneath the words. "We've always been honest with each other, haven't we?"

"Of course, Tom!"

"Well…" he swallowed. "Excuse me, Anne, I know it's not any of my business but… may I ask… is there something between… you and Gilbert?"

The fierce colour found her, staining her cheeks immediately.

"Gilbert?" she breathed, properly wretched now.

"I'm sorry Anne, I… it's just that, well, I've known Gilbert since… well, I was nearly thirteen, and he not much older…" Tom stared fixedly ahead. "And I guess I've seen him talk with, er, young ladies in my time and I… well, it seems that he… he is different, here. Or more that he's different around… _you._ "

Anne licked suddenly dry lips. "Tom, I…"

"It wouldn't be so surprising, of course," he continued in contemplation, almost to himself. "You are both lit by the same sort of fire… for knowledge and learning and… well, he is popular and engaging and smart. Very smart. He is possibly the only person I've seen who could keep up with you…" Tom appeared to wince on the words, an aggravated muscle playing hide-and-seek in his cheek. "He's driven and determined and… I can see how he would be a very… ah… good sort of match, for you."

"Match?" Anne repeated, the word - the very thought – strangled in her throat.

"Anne, you don't disappear together for twenty minutes on Sunday and Gilbert arrive back looking like the cat that got the cream for nothing," Tom turned to her, his brave smile turning down at the corners.

Anne wished that moment for a great rupture to rent the earth; a quake that might rip a vast hole in the ground that she could fall through, to escape, rather than stay and face this conversation.

"Tom, I… it's certainly true that… Gilbert and I have become _close_ …" she faltered. "He… when I learned that my great friend Katherine in Summerside was sick… he offered to… that is he…"

"He went with you," Tom answered, flicking her a glance.

"How did you…?"

"Fred, talking over lunch yesterday at his business college," Tom explained plainly. "He didn't tell me to be unkind. He just wanted to make sure I knew what I was walking into, I suppose."

Anne, cheeks still blazing, felt her brows draw together.

"I wish he hadn't. That wasn't fair of him, Tom – to you _or_ to me…" She felt a flare of anger, a fuse that she usually tried to snuff out before it took hold; she and Tom would ever be reminded of the catastrophic cost of her temper. "He might know a little about me and Gilbert but he doesn't know the circumstances of _us."_

The memory of those circumstances was a wave that continued to slap against them as they tried to navigate this new sea of friendship; a shark forever circling their little boat of refuge.

"Us." Tom announced the word with all the pent-up pain of an old wound he was tentative to touch. "And _what of_ the circumstances of _us?"_ Tom searched her face, and then looked away again, towards the harbour. "I can't lay claim to you because of a few things that happened seven years ago when we were _twelve,_ Anne…" He stood in his agitation, an agitation she had rarely witnessed, and began to pace, his eyes still on the sea.

"I can't tell you how I have longed to see you again, Anne…" he continued, how much it means to be in touch with you again. I would be your friend and only your friend till the end of the world, and be grateful, but I… if you and Gilbert are courting I don't want to – "

"We're not courting, Tom!" the denial escaped her without thought, propelled by more force than she had reckoned on. She found she had stood up at this interjection and sat down again just as quickly, fighting for composure. "That is… there was some discussion around it and… Gilbert w-wished for it but I… if the situation had been different then perhaps…"

His fair brows furrowed as he turned back to her. "You mean the…the gossip at Redmond?"

Oh, the mortification! "Yes! And _no_. Oh, Tom, I have asked Gilbert to wait and just see and for us to concentrate on our coursework and… I thought that was the only reason but… " she looked at him helplessly, grown inarticulate and faltering. "I'm here with you now and I… I can't bear to have you leave again!"

The confession tore itself from her, and his face paled.

"I will never leave you again, Anne. Not ever," he shook on the words.

She stared up at him and believed him without question.

"You never really did," she determined, dashing at a tear and then reaching beside her for her package, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a green ribbon.

"Anne?"

"My gift to you, Tom." She held it out to him. "My words and my thoughts and my imaginings… it's all I have to give you, really. It's all I have of us and those seven years."

His blue eyes were haunted, and he approached slowly, grasping the package tentatively.

He sat down beside her again.

"Shall I…?"

"Yes! Please open it, Tom! I had so long not having the chance – I don't want to miss your reaction now."

He looked to her again, uncertainly, and then untied the ribbon slowly, his large hands tucking it into his pocket for safekeeping, and then reverently unfolding the paper. There were half a dozen exercise books, such as used by schoolchildren – such as he had used himself – of uniform color and thickness, though some were newer than others. The top one was dated from the previous year, and the others progressively further back in time to that dread September seven years ago, when he had sat at his desk in the Avonlea schoolhouse, bewildered and bereft, trying to imagine her.

He turned to that oldest one now, opening it up, baring her looping, younger scrawl to the cool air – he knew it from his lone letter, still folded now, as ever, into his pocketbook. There were descriptions of the Girl's Home, amusing in their archness; some snatches of half-worked poems and ditties, and then, a sequence of stories, each more fantastical than the last… the adventures of a blonde boy and a red haired girl, brave and bounding, fearless and fabulous, squaring off against a succession of foes… the first being an evil, hunchbacked creature, poker discarded beside him, who was no match for the threat of the boy's fists as he stood over him, their nemesis cowering and snivelling before them.

Tom's gaze lingered on the pages describing their old shared nightmare come again to life.

" _Us…_ " he stated raggedly. "And _him._ "

"Yes…" Anne answered, looking up into his face. "The stories become better written, I assure you… but there were none I liked so much as that one." Her mouth set determinedly.

"No…" he breathed, risking a small, troubled smile. "I don't think I will, either."

She heard him swallow, and watched him turn other pages with a touching reverence. He understood how she had given herself in her writing; how her imagination had been her only means of both support and defence.

"Thank you, Anne. I don't know what to say. You… you should have these back when I have read them, though. They belong to you."

She shook her head determinedly. "They belong to _you,_ now…" His look at that was unfathomable, and her cheeks heated again.

"There are lots of letters too…" she explained, beginning to prattle. "Especially in the more recent copies... Letters I could never send you, and then letters, much later, that I could have and was afraid to."

They had both leaned together as they perused the pages, and when he turned to her again their faces were startingly close. "Why would you have been afraid to?"

"I thought…" she lowered her gaze, "it might have been better for you – _easier_ for you – if you had just forgotten it all. Forgotten… me."

His fingers tightened on the book he held.

"I thought I had explained that was not possible," he reminded. He turned to offer the little hessian bag that had sat next to him so patiently. " _Never._ "

The bag was surprisingly weighty, and the objects inside it clanked gently against one another. Tom, flushing, busied himself with repackaging his stories, looking at Anne from beneath light lashes.

She carefully withdrew each item in turn; wooden figures carved with increasing detail and skill, the last two handpainted as delicately as the very best china, with her initials and the year marked on each of their undersides. A girl holding a flower; a girl holding her heart literally in her hands; a girl resting against an apple tree; a girl beneath an umbrella; an older girl with quilled pen poised at a desk; and then, in glorious colour, a grown girl, more woman than not, red hair streaming, grey eyes wide, with an armful of books stacked precariously; and finally, completed during the Christmas just past, as an unknown letter waited for him, not so much a figure as a scene, of the woman and another tree and a tall, tow-headed boy-man, half hidden from her on the other side of it, his shy smile attempting to catch her own.

Anne lined the figures up on the bench, eyes blurring, unable to look at him.

"You did these," Anne rasped. " _Every_ year. Though you didn't know if you would ever see me again."

He took a moment to answer.

"Well, I'm rather glad we've met again now," he joked gently. "I was beginning to run out of room."

She choked on the attempted laugh. "Tom…" she barely managed. "Tom…"

There could be no more words possibly said and no words that would have mattered anyway. Everything that needed to be said had already found expression in those rough-hewn vows rendered real with pen and paper and blade and wood. Her tears came quicker than the ability of his calloused hands to catch them, till he could do nothing but press her against the wool of his coat and let them soak through to his own skin, mingling with his mired memories. If he murmured her name – if he said anything at all – he wouldn't have remembered it. Only later would he try to piece together the events that led to each new action… her tear stained face looking into his; the trembling pale fingers that reached to touch the old scar at his brow that only she knew the true story of; the moment of hesitation before the realisation; the silence before the succumb.

He had not ever imagined kissing her… or, more accurately, he had never _allowed_ himself to imagine it. To imagine kissing her would have been an adult violation of a child's experiences. Whatever he had seen and suffered and felt was filtered through those younger eyes, and he had held fast to his own disappearing innocence as some sort of way to try to safeguard hers.

But there on a seat in a pavilion in a park, as the sun set on his time with her, when his lips drifted down and hers reached up, he felt an awed inevitability; a comfort in the completeness. She may have had her first kiss stolen from her years ago; regrettably, he had given his away, in a momentary mix of curiosity and weakness at sixteen to the forthright, calculating charms of the sisters Pye.

But _this_ kiss, the one between them here, now, gave and never took; healed rather than hurt; looked forward and not behind… and was so more than he could have ever imagined anyway. The warmth and the softness and the seeking… the trade of breath back and forth… the tantalising graze of tongue-tip… the slow build within him, like a low rumbling, as if an engine gathering speed… a yearning in him answered, like a call he had made long ago sounding in echo back to him.

They drew apart, and he had to overcome the urge to start again… he already wanted the time back between them as he never had before… He missed her mouth under his the moment he had broken away.

Her eyes were grey-green and a little startled, as if she had received an answer to a question she hadn't thought to ask.

He had his own question, and paused in awful indecision before asking it; he didn't know if he could bear her response either way.

Before him was the vision of two bloodied, terrified children, and the words he had crooned – desperately, defiantly - in comfort to her.

"Did _this_ kiss matter, Anne? Does _this_ one count?" he choked out now, his blue eyes ablaze.

Her own eyes went wider still at the memory invoked, and she looked like she might cry anew. He couldn't stand to see that look from her and began to turn away.

"Yes, Tom!" she gasped, reaching for his hand to draw him back, laying it on her cheek. "Yes, it matters… Yes, it counts!"

He carried the heartbreak and hope of her admission all the way home to Avonlea.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

The chapter title is from _Anne of the Island_ (Ch 14)

' _ **On the surface it would go on just the same; but the deeps had been stirred.'**_

*Henry Wadsworth Longfellow _'A Rainy Day'_

** _Anne of the Island_ (Ch 27)

*** _Anne of the Island_ (Ch 6)


	22. Chapter 22 A Fortnight of Halcyon Days 1

_Dearest Readers_

 _This has been, by far, my longest time without posting, and I apologise for the delay and thank you all for your continued interest and faith in this story. Thank you to anyone who has reviewed or PM'd, particularly in the last few weeks, as I battled Real Life interruptions and a longer block of time than I originally thought spent on my other story. I assure you that my efforts will be directed here for the next little while, especially as this is quite an important part of the narrative! I specifically wrote an Anne who did not know Avonlea or grow up at Green Gables, and now she is HERE. So I am trying to tread carefully and do justice to what has already been a long journey!_

 _This chapter in Avonlea is the first of a little three-chapter arc, so there will be plenty of time to linger, and many well-known Avonlea stops along the way._

 _With a very special shout out to my new readers – some of whom have read ALL THESE WORDS in a short space of time – you are incredible! That really makes my day! And thank you to anyone who offers their thoughts back to me – it is a privilege to read them._

 _Very Best Wishes_

 _MrsVonTrapp x_

* * *

 **Chapter Twenty Two**

 **A Fortnight Of Halcyon Days**

 **Part One**

* * *

The small, lily white hand moved with mesmerising speed across the page, filling it with line upon line of neat, looping script. If he stared at it just so, unblinking, he could hypnotise himself into feeling that hand pressed in tenderness against his cheek, or threading with seeking passion through his brown curls, or clutching his shoulder, or clasping his own large hand to it in affectionate fellow-feeling. His eyes travelled from the hand to the arm, which had on several occasions folded itself against his chest, and one fevered time was remembered as twining itself around his neck. His eyes travelled further still, up to a narrow shoulder, which could delicately lift in question or shrug in exasperation; then a glimpse of collarbone above collar, which was his recurring dream to touch with his lips; and ever upwards to a pale, graceful neck, which he had magically managed to greet, once, with his mouth. Finally to that fair, beloved, beautiful face, complexion as translucent as the moonbeam he had kissed her under; the darling, pointed chin, tilted, not so much in stubbornness now, but just as often in jest; the pale cheeks which flushed with color so easily when he expressed any sort of compliment or endearment it had become his life's mission to extract a blush at every opportunity; the proud nose with its smattering of exactly seven sweet freckles; the dark auburn brows, so expressive they almost spoke a language of their own, and one he never tired of decoding; the pale forehead, so often leant against his chest, seeking solace; and crowning all, that lustrous, arresting flame of hair, so fragrant and so silken he could spend happy hours running his fingers through it. If his gaze travelled down again it could linger on that still-quizzical mouth and lips of shell pink, soft and warm and welcoming that one time beneath his … and those clear, intelligent grey eyes which sparked with green flecks whenever her emotions were aroused, and had now turned to him with humour, softening at the glazed look in his own.

' _As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart,_

 _Love's image upon earth without his wing…'_ *

"And what is _your_ view here, Mr Blythe?" their kindly English professor's prompt came from somewhere far away; a vague echo in the distance.

Luckily Gilbert had learned to snap himself to attention through long practice, even when losing himself when looking upon Miss Shirley, which was just as well, as he would receive no help from that quarter today as he had so unexpectedly that time so long ago, setting into motion a friendship, and so much more that a friendship, which had transformed his life.

Byron. They were still on Byron.

 _Oh! Let that eye, which, wild as the Gazelle's,_

 _Now brightly bold or beautifully shy,_

 _Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells,_

 _Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny_

 _That smile for which my breast might vainly sigh_

 _Could I to thee be ever more than friend…'_ *

Gilbert cleared his throat, and his long fingers adjusted his tie.

"Well, Sir, it would appear that debate continues as to whether Lord Byron's eminence rests on his literary merit or his personal appeal, and the reputation he upheld as the very embodiment of the _Byronic hero_ he himself invented and popularised. By all accounts Byron rather revelled in this notoriety and it in turn fed and informed his work. I myself cannot separate one from the other, and I don't think at this stage, so very many decades after his death, we are meant to." Gilbert flashed a knowing hazel gleam towards Anne. "I hesitate to suggest we are back to one of our earlier debates regarding Mr Dickens."

Anne appeared to be swallowing her own tongue at this bold assertion, and the audacious reversal of his own previous arguments regarding the necessity to separate the personal life of a writer from his work. He relished the two bright red spots staining the otherwise untainted cheeks of the newly announced recipient of this year's Thorburn scholarship. ** Meanwhile their professor chuckled in remembered pleasure, and then noted the impatient shuffling of Mr Ed Sanderson and others, which rather interfered with his desire to have Miss Shirley give her anticipated reply, though her mouth was open and her stance indicated her readiness to do exactly that.

"Yes, yes… _touche,_ Mr Blythe," their professor smiled. "Though your assignment over the break I trust will be much more focussed on a deconstruction of _Don Juan_ and other works than on Lord Byron's travels and entanglements in Europe."

"Yes, Sir," Gilbert grinned, and as their professor instructed the class on deadlines for after the break Anne could do nothing but give a fetching impression of a fish, opening and closing her mouth ineffectually as he himself had once done, and then have no choice but to graciously accept the round of applause led by their delighted professor regarding the Thorburn, before the last class of the term was dismissed and Spring in all her promise beckoned their classmates with a virtual stampede for the door.

Gilbert lingered as they both shook hands with their professor and then he was alone with a flustered Anne, as he had once been that long ago day, and too pleased with himself he leaned laconically against his chair while he waited for her to pack up her notes.

"You enjoyed that!" Anne finally turned to him, unable to keep the quirk from her lips and certainly unable to prevent the alluring fizzle of green, like a sudden sunburst lighting the darker reaches of those grey eyes.

"I did, rather," he smirked, crossing his arms.

Anne sighed extravagantly. "I fear you are much more attached to the _idea_ of Lord Byron than you have ever been about his work. And likewise, Mr Blythe, I fear you are equally _'mad, bad and dangerous to know.'_ " ***

This elicited an unrepentant grin from him, and his tone turned scandalously suggestive as he surveyed her with a jungle cat's appraisal.

"How you wound me, Miss Shirley," he purred. "I have been the soul of patience and the paragon of virtue since you requested us to concentrate on our studies for the rest of this term. Which now appears to be _over…_ " he raised a dark eyebrow. "And as for my liking of Lord Byron's _poetical_ works, I might have once decried his romantic excesses and all the gnashing of teeth but I now find that his sentiments seem to _speak_ to me." He gave her a heavy-lidded look.

"Oh?" Anne squeaked, eyes wide.

"Perhaps I still have the power to surprise you…" He took a step forward, and then another, inching ever closer, till his breath stirred the tendrils of red hair near her ear as he whispered into it.

" _There was a time, I need not name,  
Since it will ne'er forgotten be,  
When all our feelings were the same  
As still my soul hath been to thee." _****

Gilbert stepped back, all the better to see the new blush forming on those cheeks, and a slow breath emit from that slight frame, as if Anne had struggled to manage it.

"Are our feelings _still_ the same, Anne?" he found his own breathing, and his voice, far than steady.

It was less a question seeking reassurance and more a remembered vow. Though he had made light of it, deliberately, it had been more difficult than he had ever anticipated, these past six weeks, to have looked upon her as a lover would and yet treat her as a friend. He should have been used to it; had he not been doing the very same, in some shape or form, since the moment he had met her?

To the outside world, after their deliberately circumspect few weeks post- Summerside, and particularly after Tom's visit, it would appear that their relationship had progressed much as it ever had; the teasingly close connection; the camaraderie of their academic exploits. Yet he had been required to stand aside at her birthday, in the merry circle surrounding her with his cheers, and not beside her to bestow his kiss. He had not been able to delightedly spin her round at her blushing news of the Thorburn earlier that week, instead having to settle for a too-brief hug; he had not been able to warm her with his arms as the new-spring winds caught them on the way to class, or take her hand to run for their oak trees at the first genuine rays of sun. He had not even, to his great regret, been able to serenade her over their recent studies of Tennyson or the great Romantic poets; the old masters Wordsworth and Coleridge and, ever painfully, the next generation of Byron and Shelley and Keats. Though his actions had been in every way supportive and sincere, he worried over his secret selfishness; would mere friendship ever be able to fully _satisfy_ him now? And what of her letters from and thoughts of Tom? So it was no wonder he took surprising refuge in Byron; _he_ at least would have understood and appreciated all this pent-up passion; the dam about to burst its banks.

"Gilbert…" Anne hedged, blushing and voice wavering. "You've been so wonderful this past month or so that I… I feel I can't thank you enough. But I feel I am being so unfair…" she blinked rapidly and turned away from him.

 _Oh, damn! Six weeks of reining himself in only to fall at this last hurdle?_

"Anne, no, of course not! I'm sorry. I'm not trying to force some sort of confession out of you… I guess that I'm just relieved the term is over and excited to think that you're coming home."

He groaned inwardly, convinced he was rapidly digging a deeper hole for himself. He thought of the time, the very moment, he realized his feelings for her had changed; seeing her in her spring green at the football fundraising dance; gazing, awestruck, upon her, and thinking to himself that she was _Home._

"Home? To Avonlea?" she darted a look to him, potential tears drying in the wake of her shy curiosity. "You're excited for me to come?"

 _How could she have ever doubted it? It was the fulfilment of so many long-cherished dreams to have her there he could hardly separate them._

His tried to share the full force of his feelings in his ever-widening grin.

"Anne, I'm _so_ excited for you to be coming that I could swim the strait in my eagerness!"

She gave an incredulous, gratified little laugh, her embarrassment and uncertainty falling off her like a discarded raincoat.

"Well, let's not have it come _quite_ to that! I feel I share some responsibility in delivering you to your parents unscathed!" She gifted him her lovely smile, before her expression changed. " _Particularly_ since you're famous now!"

"Pardon?" he was still grinning even as she fished in her satchel and drew out the latest copy of the Redmond student newspaper, handing it to him with a flourish. "The front page no less, President Blythe."

He colored faintly under her admiring gaze as he quickly scanned the generously sized article; _Freshman President Leads Patterson Street Charity Endeavour._ It had taken him a while to light on an idea for Anne's challenge to him; to use his power and influence for good, and then still more time than it should have to convince not only those on the Student Council, but even the Dean and fellow powers-that-be, that education started at the grass roots and that it was shameful, in a town that had sprouted both Redmond and the commercial college, that there were still students at the other end of it lacking the basic materials to even learn to write their names. It had then been quite a process attempting to solicit donations, both from students and the few booksellers in town, and to round up his eclectic army of both former teachers, such as himself and Anne and Pris, and fellow students such as Phil, a dubious but uncharacteristically obliging Charlie, and various student councilors, debaters, footballers and interested volunteers, who all gained special dispensation to descend upon the little school amidst the slums of Patterson Street last Friday, to distribute writing materials and free books to the children there for the beginnings of their little library, and to then spend the afternoon reading and playing with the very same children who hardly hoped to get through their weekly lessons uninterrupted by the demands of family or illness, let alone make it all the way to wearing the scarlet and white.

Even more than the positive report, the photograph was his favourite thing – all his friends surrounded by schoolchildren, grinning giddily at the unexpected success of the afternoon, and he remembered having maneuvered Anne to be by his side, a little curly-haired boy between them, and his heart skid momentarily at the image; a flash of a future he dared not even contemplate. And yet _some chance-sewn seed_ ***** had buried itself deep within him, taking surprising hold.

"It was a wonderful day, Gilbert," Anne murmured appreciatively at his shoulder, her eyes very bright as she risked meeting his. "Just such a wonderful initiative. I don't want this to sound condescending- I'd hate for it to come out that way – but I was so proud of you."

He swallowed carefully. At one stage he had only ever thought of _himself_ – to do right by others was an automatic, ingrained thing in him, but he had never taken the thought further, to do something that was beyond himself, or any of them.

"Anne – it's not condescending. That means an awful lot to me – that you would think that way. I would never have thought of anything like this but for you." _And if not for Tom,_ his conscience acknowledged.

"I've heard the Dean will perhaps make it a termly thing, or at least twice yearly," Anne continued.

"Yes – they might throw some money our way next time," he rolled his eyes. "It would be nice for the Student Council to get behind some social causes."

"Gilbert Blythe, The Great Reformer," she smiled up at him, in a way that made his stomach flip.

He chuckled sheepishly. "Better not let my dad hear you say that! He might think I mean for him to co-op the farm!"

Gilbert moved to lean once more against a chair, the newspaper in hand, and he looked back to Anne more seriously.

"Anne, the books and everything were a great thing. But the _conditions_ of the children there… It was pretty shocking. I had no idea…" he struggled for the right words. "If those children could get better basic medical care, it could make such a difference to their educational outcomes… just to their basic welfare and…" he faltered, shrugging his broad shoulders. "I mean, I don't know where you'd even start…"

"You start _here_ , Gilbert…" she indicated to the paper. "And _here_ and _here…_ " she touched her heart and her head. "You've no idea how even a little can do so much. Those children will remember that afternoon for the rest of their childhoods. Every time they see one of those new books it will spur them on… they will hold fast to the memory of it, and the little sprig of hope you and all our friends brought along that day."

His eyes locked with hers, and he wanted nothing so much but to crush her to him.

"You're speaking from experience, aren't you, Anne?" his voice caught on the question.

She colored faintly, but had grown braver in sharing herself with him.

"Yes…" she nodded slowly, not elaborating, but the admission itself was perhaps enough for now. "I do… and so does Tom."

His eyes widened at the new thought, before his dark brows lowered in contemplation. "Of course," he offered quietly, nodding.

She gave a soft smile. "It's all right, Gilbert. He and I were the lucky ones."

He smiled faintly. "I forget how _I'm_ one of the lucky ones, Anne."

He folded the paper gently, offering it back to her.

"No, that's for your mother to keep," Anne shook her head, giving him a knowing look. "Phil and I went by the newspaper offices early this morning, snaffling copies enough for everyone, with a few extra to take home to families. I've put away an extra copy for you yourself, back in my room."

"You are _magnificent,_ Anne," he shook his own head at her. "My Ma will want to frame this of course. And it's just another reason for her to love you. They both can't wait to meet you."

"And I, them." Her pleased blush made him want to clasp her for altogether different reasons.

"Well, I guess we'd better get on, then, or there will be some pretty perplexed parents waiting for us to alight from train!"

Anne grinned her assent, and he ushered her towards the stairs without further delay.

* * *

They made a merry party all heading back from Kingsport together; Anne, Gilbert, Diana and Fred, Pris and Ruby; even Jane, bearing the separation from her fiancé Harry for one last holiday, and Charlie, who was rather grateful for Anne's kindness over his seasickness, and may have even requested her to rub his back comfortingly in a way that made Gilbert roll his eyes in exasperation. Only Phil was disappointed to not be heading across the strait, and in farewelling her Anne had been sure to mollify her friend with thoughts of Alec and Alonzo duelling for her attention back at Mount Holly, and the prospect of Mr Summerfield, still lurking on the scene, writing a lovestruck letter that she could read in front of them at every opportunity.

After a time, Gilbert was able to find a quiet spot on the windswept deck of the ferry with Anne, and he watched with a fascinated wonder at the play of emotions across her expressive face, made pink in its exposure to the elements.

"How are you feeling Anne?" he queried.

"Fine…" she hedged. "Well, I guess, just a little… _at sea,"_ she shook her head, despairing at the obvious metaphor. _"_ _I feel like Byron's 'Childe Harold'—only it isn't really my 'native shore' that I'm watching," said Anne, winking her gray eyes vigorously._ ****** I don't really know which one my 'native shore' actually _is._ I don't know why I feel so strange to be going back. It's not as if I didn't just spend the last seven years of my life on the Island… or to have gone back with you a little over a month ago…" she admitted with a chagrined, faltering smile.

"But it's not quite the same," he stated, his hazel eyes on hers full of concern.

"No," she sighed.

Gilbert looked ahead to the distant landmass himself, thoughtful. "Well…" he sought for a way to lighten the subject, "I'm afraid Avonlea is no Summerside. We only have the _one_ general store!"

"Oh no!" she laughed, seemingly glad to be diverted. "The horror!"

" _Indeed_. And the Post Office is run by two ladies who are among the worst gossips in the entire maritime provinces."

" _Most_ reassuring. Are you trying to put me off your home town, Gilbert?"

"Not at all…" the thought of little Avonlea bringing a smile to his face, unbidden. "For there are many compensations. The gentle green hills… and the red roads… and the orchards… and the shore… and the woods…" he trailed off, mesmerised by the dreamy look that had come over her.

" _There is a pleasure in the pathless woods…"_ she began to recite.

" _There is a rapture on the lonely shore,_

 _There is a society where none intrudes_

 _By the deep sea, and music in its roar…"_ *******

"I believe _you_ don't think Byron is so bad either, Anne," he grinned till she blushed. Having gained his reward, he contemplated further. "And I've forgotten the _lanes_ in Avonlea _…_ " he added. "Many secluded, romantic lanes, excellent for rambling." He turned into her, and his smile had become deliciously knowing, accompanied by a decidedly smoky inflection to his smooth baritone.

" _Romantic, secluded_ country lanes, Mr Blythe?" she parried.

"Yes _indeed_ , Miss Shirley."

"And have you much experience of such settings?"

"Ah… a little, of a very… that is, somewhat… _limited_ variety," he found himself coloring, annoyingly, and Anne gave a delighted little laugh at his discomfort.

"I have a feeling my de facto guardian in times past, a Miss Katherine Brooke, might have something to say about such excursions."

"And how _is_ our indefatigable Miss Brooke?" he was relieved to swerve further incriminating confessions.

"Oh, Gilbert, she is so much better!" Anne visibly brightened. "Up and about perfectly well now, although her foot is still weak and can't bear much weight. She has sought out a very handsome cane to use, apparently, and likes to brandish it with alacrity. I fear even by her own admission she makes even more of an arresting presence now!"

Gilbert shook his head ruefully, his smile broad and fonder than he thought it would be. "I didn't think that was possible."

Anne chuckled in acknowledgement, and then, as if forgetting herself, put a hand on his arm.

"She hopes to be well enough to travel by the summer. She mentioned you almost, well, _fondly!_ She sends her very best to you, and wanted to tell you that Dr McCubbin is continuing to check on her, and has sent his best to you as well."

"Thank you. And please remember me to her with equal fondness. Tinged, as she would be _well_ aware, with not a little fear."

Gilbert put his hand over hers, and smiled down into her eyes and curled lips, and for a moment all was perfectly right in his world again. He would have Anne in Avonlea… he could almost taste the pleasure of her reactions to all the many places he had cited, not to mention the pride that swelled in him in being able to introduce her to his parents. Perhaps not _quite_ as the girl he was courting, but the intention of his actions would be unmistakable. And once Anne was able to visit Green Gables and with Tom, and settle her issues with her past, she might feel she could refocus on _them_ again, and well… let's just say there was the perfect spot down his favourite lane, where the new-spring canopy would shield them like a mother cradling a newborn; and the feel of her lips beneath his again would hopefully no longer be just a fevered memory.

Perhaps his thoughts betrayed him; Anne read something in his look which made her avert her eyes and withdraw her hand, turning away to let the breeze ease the flush to her cheeks. Soon he hoped to kiss away the heat of those twin spots on her cheeks, or else encourage that flush to light her skin all over. Either way, with a small smile, Gilbert once more resolved to bide his time.

* * *

It was twilight when the train pulled into Bright River station.

Like a little girl with her nose pressed to the glass, Anne had stared out at the incredible landscape; undulating fields; gently rolling hills; red roads bathed in a golden sunset under a vast, open sky.

" _Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to see_

 _What Heaven hath done for this delicious land!_

 _What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree!_

 _What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand!"_ ********

Her first passage to Prince Edward Island had been at eleven; being shunted onto the ferry upon leaving the asylum and forced to sit, unmoving, in view of the steward; then met at the other side by one of the junior matrons of the Girl's Home, who was unsmiling and silent all the way to Summerside. The lack of chatter had barely bothered her; she was so far from feeling connected to herself, so blanketed by her fog of depression and despair, that she was hardly aware of her surroundings. She was simply exchanging one big town for another; one more stop on the ceaseless journey of her life to which she owned no ticket and knew no end destination.

But here, now, was both an end and a beginning. And she clutched her own ticket firmly in her hand.

The others seated nearest her – Gilbert and Diana and Fred – had been mercifully, thankfully quiet; murmuring their conversation like a gentle, lulling hum; largely leaving her to her private musings. But now, all was the clash and clamour of foraging for coats and hats and hand luggage, and the waving to unseen folks on the platform, who made a long, snaking line of quivering expectation in the almost-dark.

Anne grabbed at her carpet bag, grasping the handles resolutely and earning a smile from Gilbert as he helped her with her coat and they followed the throng through the carriage and out into the bracing, lightly fragrant air.

There seemed to be half of adult Avonlea to greet them; a tall, slightly balding man with a fine coat and a distinguished air, who shook Fred's hand and enfolded Diana in his arms; a genial, beaming, fair-headed man who could belong to either Ruby or Pris with that shared coloring; both a man and a woman who launched themselves at Charlie, the woman flinging both greetings and instructions into the air at a loud and startling rate; a quiet man with Jane's pleasant, unassuming looks and ready smile, shaking his head wryly at the pandemonium around them; a tall, broad shouldered older version of Gilbert, with his son's hair and smile, who stepped forward to hug him tightly; and further down the platform, in the shadow of a large, beautiful cherry tree, there stood a tall, fair figure, carefully watching proceedings, a patient look of longing in his gentle, pale blue eyes.

Forgotten momentarily in the crush of happy reunions, Anne made her way silently towards him, till they both broke rank, quickening their steps and ending in a tight embrace.

"You're _here!_ " Tom breathed into her hair.

" _You're_ here!" her relieved laugh bubbled up from her. "'Tom, you didn't have to!"

"I _had_ to," he answered firmly. "I could never have let you come and not met you, Anne."

She drew back from him, smiling stupidly, and then movement at her periphery alerted her to a likewise tall, quiet personage, emerging from the shadows, fiddling with his cap anxiously.

"Anne…" Tom grinned. "I'd like to introduce you to Mr Matthew Cuthbert."

Anne peeked from behind Tom to take in the figure of her imaginings and Tom's own descriptions… the kindly blue eyes; the shy smile; the long hair and magnificent steel grey beard. All were present and accounted for, certainly… but nothing could account for the flutter of feeling in her belly… the ripple of recognition upon seeing the man who had helped raise Tom, and the sensation of having known him when she hadn't even met him.

"Mr Cuthbert!" she smiled up at him. "It's wonderful to meet you!"

"Please… call me Matthew, Miss Shirley. It's… a real pleasure to know you at last."

"Well then, you must call me _Anne._ "

"Anne with an _E,_ if I'm not mistaken," he smiled a little slyly.

"Yes, indeed!" she clasped his large, weatherbeaten hand in both of hers, squeezing tightly, and then, quite overcome, threw her arms around him as she had done Tom.

"Anne!" Diana called out to her, and then it seemed half of the platform was moving like the tide down towards them; Diana then introducing her father Mr Barry; Jane introducing her own father before he departed with his daughter and Ruby; Charlie barely getting in a wave in their general direction as he was whisked away by a parent on either arm; Pris coming up with her rosy cheeked father, giving Tom a most enthusiastic greeting and Anne a fond kiss farewell before making her rather forlorn way to nearby Spencervale; and then Gilbert and Fred approaching, shaking hands with Tom and Matthew Cuthbert before Gilbert introduced her to his own father with a beaming smile.

"Miss Shirley!" John Blythe extended a hand, and Anne stared up into twinkling blue eyes, full of his son's mischief, his own blinding smile warming her down to her toes.

"Hello, Mr Blythe! It's lovely to meet you!"

"And _you,_ Miss Shirley! Gilbert's mother and I hope you have a lovely stay in Avonlea. You and Diana are most welcome over at Blythe Farm while you're with us."

"Thank you very much," Anne smiled and nodded, feeling overwhelmed by the charm that obviously ran in the family, aware that Tom was also nodding in sympathy of his own such idea, and whose last letter had been full of such wishes from the folk at Green Gables.

Diana glanced with mindful dark eyes at Anne, and then at the two tall young men flanking her.

"Anne, we have your trunk with us, and Father will take your carpet bag. Fred will go with Gilbert and Mr Blythe. Tom, we hope to have a little gathering at Orchard Slope on Tuesday at lunchtime – do please come! And now, Miss Shirley, we still have a little ways to go and lots to talk about!"

Diana smiled expectantly at the men assembled - Barry and Blythe and Caruthers and Cuthbert and Wright - as she linked her arm resolutely through Anne's. The men immediately galvanised themselves into action, doffing hats in their now-hurried goodbyes as if the lovely Miss Barry had shrilly threatened all of them with a cattle prod. With a slight flourish Diana twirled Anne in the opposite direction and began strolling with her back down the railway platform.

" _How_ did you _do_ that?" Anne whispered to her, agog.

" _Years_ of watching my mother," Diana responded dryly. "The men are dead easy to manage when they're by themselves. It's the _women_ you have to watch out for."

Anne gulped audibly, thinking on all the women of Avonlea she had yet to try to win over.

"And anyway, Miss Anne, none of us could have stood around in the dark waiting for you to decide which of your young men to kiss goodbye first!"

" _Diana!"_ Anne hissed, receiving a delighted titter in response. "You know that is _very_ private information, divulged only to yourself!" The tinge of mortification, worn the first time she had confessed the great sin of having kissed not one but _two_ men in just over as many weeks, found her anew.

"Oh, Anne! The knowledge is safe with me! At any rate, you might be able to add to your tally while you're here."

" _Pardon?"_ Anne turned green.

"You are yet to meet Moody Spurgeon MacPherson, you know!"

* * *

Marilla Cuthbert was waiting anxiously for the men of the household to return. She was keeping a late supper warm and was busily baking, determined there would be more than enough to tempt a certain visitor come the weekend.

She lived with a loud former neighbour, a demure girl and a rambunctious young boy, and yet she felt the yawning silences most potently when the two quietest occupants of the house were not within it. Tom had been on pins and needles all day, uncharacteristically unsettled, and it had almost been a relief to see him and Matthew off to meet the train at Bright River. Had Matthew gotten a pang from the thought as she had, thinking of that summer nearly eight years ago? How different might things have been, in so many ways, if a young girl had alighted from the train and not their strapping boy?

At last she heard the familiar, reassuring squeal of the gate, and the buggy turn into the long drive. She watched through the window as it passed through behind the house and towards the barn, and knew that Tom would urge Matthew inside whilst he unsaddled the horse and gave it plenty of feed, drink and attention before it settled down for the night.

Whether _Tom_ would be able to settle for the night was certainly another story.

Marilla wiped down her hands on her apron as she heard Matthew's heavy boots on the outdoor mat, and then he was inside, quietly divesting himself of his cap and jacket, tussling with his boots to exchange them for his slippers. Marilla looked on in bewildered impatience as he smiled at her, nodded approvingly towards the supper preparations, and shuffled across to wash up, taking his chair at the table composedly.

" _Well?"_ she finally asked in exasperation, knowing that Tom would be upon them any minute, and then she'd have to summon Rachel and the twins from upstairs.

"Well?'' he frowned, as if genuinely puzzled by the question.

"How did it all come off, then?" she attempted to manage her tone, which threatened to climb in decibels in her frustration.

"Oh, fine. Everyone was met off the train safely."

Marilla rolled her eyes. This was indeed reassuring news, but not quite the detail she wanted to hear.

"For Mercy's sake, Matthew Cuthbert! Of course I meant the girl! _Anne Shirley._ How did you find her? What did you think?"

There were precious few times when it would have been useful to dispatch Rachel on a mission with regard to these questions, though this was undoubtedly one of them. Her brother was certainly no wordsmith. Although this mysterious girl certainly was. The expected short note of thanks for the preserves Tom had taken with him to Kingsport had instead been a generous, chatty missive of three pages, followed only this week by yet another letter telling of her excitement and delight to be able to come to Avonlea, and to thank them for their kind invitation to visit with them at Green Gables on Saturday. Marilla was building a definite picture of this young lady in her mind – intelligent; lively; gregarious; generous of spirit; but it would be somewhat helpful to also have some first-hand impressions to be going on with. Marilla now stood there, hand on hip, incredulous to see the soft smile creep across her brother's craggy features.

Matthew steepled his hands together, giving Marilla's request for information due consideration.

" _Lovely…_ " he nodded to himself, smiling widely. "She was… _lovely."_

Marilla's eyebrows flew up to her delicately-lined forehead. And in that moment, Tom entered through the door, his own smile a flash of sunlight strong enough to reach every dark corner of the house.

* * *

It took a decidedly long time for the excited occupants of Blythe Farm to find their beds that evening. Spring in Avonlea was such a very different proposition to the bitter depths of winter, and likewise, in contrast to his last visit, it appeared Gilbert's affable charm and good humour had re-emerged in the seasonal thaw. He was bounding boyishly once more, unable to sit still for more than five minute intervals; a dervish of dancing energy, leaping from his chair to rifle through his luggage, producing his letter pronouncing him the recipient of the small Science scholarship that had been on offer; rattling off an impressive round of figures confirming his leading status in every class except Mathematics (where he was only two points behind a Miss Gordon) and in English Literature (where he confessed to being a very happy second behind a certain Miss Shirley). The latter young lady featured in a notable percentage of the conversation, not least when he arrived at the explanation behind a certain Redmond newspaper article, and Adela Blythe delighted as much in the report of the wonderful efforts of Gilbert and his supporters in such a worthwhile cause, as she did in finally getting a first glimpse at the mysterious young woman behind a long-ago gift under a pillow, and not least a suspected not-so-long-ago elopement.

Now her boy was tucking himself into his too-small bed in his boyhood bedroom, and his mother couldn't contain her joy at having him again just down the hall, her smile drifting into a kiss she gave his father, who grinned delightedly as he grasped her tightly under the covers.

"Well, now, Mrs Blythe, if _that's_ your reaction to having our son and heir under our roof again, then I can't in all fairness let him go back to Kingsport," John murmured leadingly.

Adela giggled into his chest.

"Oh John – he seems so _happy!_ Doesn't he seem just so happy to you?"

"Any happier or energetic and I could hitch him to the buggy and have him take me into town," John chuckled.

"He's full of news of this _Anne._ I must ask – how did you find her this evening?"

"On the platform with all the others," came wry reply.

"John – be serious!"

There was more soft laughter. "Sorry, love. Alright. She is… a very pretty slip of a thing. Not your usual looks or coloring, but she wears them well. Nice, friendly, direct manner. No simpering, thank goodness. Decent handshake, too. And Gil swarmed about her like a bee about a flower."

At this Adela sighed. "I suspected as much. Remember that letter, John, after that awful time when he was in Summerside with her? He couldn't help his feelings emerge with every line. Thank goodness no one here knew her name to link her to that rumour. They barely avoided a dreadful mess."

"Mmmm…" John was thoughtful.

"I know that sound, Jonathan Blythe. What aren't you telling me?"

"I'm sure it's nothing, love."

"Well then, that means it's definitely _something!_ " Adela frowned. " _Please,_ John."

There were a few pained moments of silence, but Adela knew from long experience to wait them out.

"Er, it's just that… Gilbert might not be the only one with a claim to this girl's affections."

"How do you mean?"

"I mean that… I can only tell you what I saw. And I saw Marilla Cuthbert's boy there at the station, too. He and this Miss Shirley seemed very… _pleased_ … to see one another."

" _Marilla's_ boy? You mean Tom Caruthers? _Fred'_ s friend?"

"Well, and Gilbert's too, going back. Matthew was there with him."

" _Matthew_ Cuthbert? What on earth?" Adela sat up, leaning in surprise against the headboard.

John Blythe groaned softly to himself, hauling his long body up to sit beside her. "I tried to quiz Gilbert on it once we'd dropped off Fred, but he was pretty tight lipped. He would only say that they knew each other briefly, over in Hopetown, before Tom was adopted by the Cuthberts."

"How extraordinary… but that would have been _years_ ago…" Adela frowned into the darkness. "Surely they'd hardly have anything in common now? Not like she and Gilbert, over together at Redmond?"

"Mmmm…" John replied.

"Honestly, John! Tom is a very nice boy; a good, decent, hardworking boy, but, well, he's… he's not quite _Gilbert._ "

John's grin was very amused. "Spoken like a true mother. Though I must say, I wouldn't mind having a Tom around _our_ farm."

Adela bypassed the tease, warming to her theme. "At any rate, I hardly think Anne Shirley would be coming along to visit us after church on Sunday if there wasn't something there with Gilbert."

"Indeed. I can't argue there."

"But you _want_ to!"

"Well, look here. They are all young yet. In a way _they are children, yet_ ***** you know. Gil's not even finished his first year at Redmond. You were beside yourself to think he had eloped and now you want to tie him to this girl?"

"I just want him to be happy."

"Which we've established he _is._ "

"Sometimes, John Blythe, you can be the most infuriating man!"

"Yes, but you know that's why you love me…"

Adela felt those strong, work-hardened arms come around her, and the nuzzle of his lips to her throat rather put paid to further musings on the matter. But much, much later, with her husband sleeping very contentedly beside her, she crept down the hall, opening the door on the boy-man who had been the light of their lives. He was stretched out the full length of the bed, his sleep-tousled curls dark against the pillow, the slight smile to his mouth, his large, long fingered hand still clutching the article with its grainy photo of a large group surrounding he and a girl. Adela extracted the paper carefully, glancing at it again as she laid it on the desk… and this time she identified the same hand lightly placed on the girl's shoulder, and his other hand, touchingly, on a dark, curly-haired young pupil in front of them.

Adela's throat tightened.

She laid a light kiss on his forehead before turning back, pausing at the doorway to stare in contemplation.

Yes, he was still so young… and Miss Anne Shirley even younger. They had years yet to sort through the inevitable youthful crises of love won and lost… She would try not to read too much into circumstances now. But Adela Blythe knew a little something of the power and pain of a choice between two good men.

She hoped with all her heart that there would not come a time when Anne Shirley would have to make one.

* * *

The whitewashed steps leading to the wide verandah creaked in welcome under her delicate weight, and the wind rushed through the trees as if in whispered gossip about her. If houses were human, ascribed traits and personalities - and she had always felt sure they could – then the pristine, fresh-scrubbed façade of Green Gables was a decent, genteel, God-fearing older lady, spending quiet days in industrious endeavour.

Just how that rag-tag redheaded long-ago girl may have fit into such an environment was anyone's guess now. Anne could almost feel that eleven year old's tremulous trepidation and her pained eagerness to please. Would it have made a difference how helpful and humble she was, how grateful and good, if they had only ever had need of a boy? Gilbert had once asked her, had it been more painful or less so to have lost her parents so young, never having a single memory of them, than to have grown up in their love and then have it be taken from her anyway? She didn't know her answer then any more than she knew it now. All she knew as she paused at the forest-green door was that she must knock upon it, and be admitted, and bravely waltz with her could-have-beens.

She didn't get as far as knocking; the door swung open and Tom was on the other side of it, his expression one of unassailable delight, and he crossed the threshold to take her hand in his own.

"Anne! We were listening out for the buggy!"

"I had Fred and Diana drop me at the gate – I wanted to walk. To take it all in."

He smiled brilliantly at that. "I won't tell you how scared and awed I was when I first arrived, then."

"Best not to!"

His smile faltered, along with his voice. "I can't believe that you're… _here._ Thank you, Anne, for finding me."

It would possibly not do to start sobbing on the doorstep, so instead she squeezed his hand, and he led her inside.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

" _ **Anne spent a fortnight of halcyon days at Echo Lodge in the golden prime of August."**_

 _ **Anne of the Island**_ **(Ch 23)**

*Lord Byron _Childe Harold's Pilgrimage_ (1812) [Section: To Ianthe]

**Canon Anne had clearly won the Thorburn by the end of her first year, but I have used a little licence regarding how early it may have been announced, being as they have only just completed their second term here.

***One of the all-time terrific sayings, and part of the cultural lexicon now. It was indeed said about (and most probably _to)_ Byron and attributed to Lady Caroline Lamb, who was married to Sir William Lamb – later Viscount Melbourne and eventual Prime Minister of Great Britain. For anyone who has watched either Paul Bettany in the film 'Young Victoria' or Rufus Sewell in the first series of 'Victoria', he becomes Queen Victoria's charming and beloved 'Lord M'.

Caroline and Byron had a torrid affair for several months in 1812, shortly after the publication of _'Childe Harold'._ Although she was demanding and histrionic, bombarding him with letters after their break up and once trying to slash her wrists with a broken wine glass in front of him after he publicly insulted her at a society event, it seemed Byron acted just as terribly and outrageously. The two remain linked all their lives, writing poems in the style of one another, about one another and even _to_ one another such as in his hate poem _'Remember thee! Remember thee!'_ (which in itself was a response to her writing 'Remember me!' in one of his books).Caroline, a poet and authoress, wrote the popular Gothic novel _Glenarvon_ in 1816, which contained a thinly-veiled portrait of the both of them, and contained the first version of a _Byronic hero_ outside of Byron's own work.

Though obviously not the most functional of families, I can't help for personal reasons liking the Lambs – they themselves had a loving and passionate relationship (particularly before Byron!) but sadness regarding their children. A second child, a daughter, was premature and lived only 24 hours, and their firstborn son was widely reputed to have a mental disability, thought now to be autism, and rather than send him to an institution as most aristocratic families in similar situations did, they cared for him at home, till his death at 29 in 1836, his mother Caroline having died eight years before.

****Byron _'There was a Time, I Need Not Name'_

***** _Anne of the Island_ (Ch 2)

****** _Anne of the Island_ (Ch 3)

*******Byron ' _Childe Harold's Pilgrimage'_ [Fourth Canto]

********Byron _'Childe Harold's Pilgrimage_ [First Canto]


	23. Chapter 23 A Fortnight of Halcyon Days 2

**Author's Note:**

 _And here I was thinking that the LAST chapter was long in coming… I can only apologise again. And plead illness, school holidays, three weeks of solo parenting, and the vagaries of Real Life. Thank goodness for fanfiction! Thank you again for your patience!_

 _A special welcome to all the new readers (and writers!) on this site. We appreciate your presence (and your feedback!) so much and know you will enjoy being amongst this wonderful community. I, especially, have been really humbled by the many new favourites and follows for this story over the past few weeks, which have thrilled and heartened me so much. And, as ever, I remain so grateful to my reviewers, particularly as I am so slow in communicating with you. Thank you, all, and please know there is still a lot of this story to go!_

 _This Avonlea chapter is a Part Two and takes place immediately after the end of the previous chapter; you might like to read the very last paragraph of Chapter 22 to refresh! Otherwise we are straight into some action with some very familiar characters! I hope I do them justice. This was to be the middle of a three chapter arc, which might stretch to four, as there is just so much happening!_

 _Finally to anyone playing the What's that 1980's Movie Reference? game with_ _ **mavors4986**_ _and myself, there are some references – five to be exact! – from one of the seminal movies of that decade (and one of my favourite films!) happening in the scene between Anne and Gilbert (and an additional reference in the scene with Anne and Tom!) HINT: Only proceed if you like 'kissing books'!_

 _With very best wishes_

 _MrsVonTrapp x_

* * *

 **Chapter Twenty Three**

 **A Fortnight of Halcyon Days**

 **Part Two**

* * *

"Golly! Her hair really _is_ red!" was Anne's inauspicious introduction to Green Gables.

"I'm afraid it is!" Anne laughed in surprise, looking about for the owner of such an audacious comment.

" _Davy Keith!_ " a matronly, handsome woman admonished, whilst a tall, angular woman, hair in a tight, greying bun, smiled apologetically and placed a warning hand on the shoulder of a frowning, golden-haired boy.

"Excuse us please, Miss Shirley," the woman stepped around the boy, extending a hand that was worn and creased and surprisingly soft, as was her smile. "I'm Marilla Cuthbert, and this here is Davy and his twin sister Dora, my brother Matthew, whom you may remember from the station, and our friend Mrs Rachel Lynde. It is mighty fine to welcome you to Green Gables."

"Thank you very much, Miss Cuthbert."

" _Marilla,_ please."

Anne smiled into kind blue eyes, her voice catching on her own request. "And please, call me _Anne._ It's wonderful to be here, Marilla. What a beautiful house and setting it is."

Marilla Cuthbert smiled in acknowledgment, gently encouraging a young blonde girl forward.

"Hello, Miss Anne," she extended her hand with perfect manners. "I'm Dora Keith."

"Hello, Dora. Tom's told me so much about you and your brother. I've met a few twins in my time, actually. Tell me, do you like many of the same things?"

Dora appeared surprised by the question, and the easy way Anne had immediately attempted to engage her.

"No Miss, not really," she murmured.

"That's been _my_ experience around twins, certainly." Anne's smile was generous and knowing.

"We're nothing alike on the inside," her lookalike brother interrupted, hazel eyes flashing. "She's good and _I'm_ a ruffian."

The older women attempted to again silence such outbursts, whilst Matthew's eyes twinkled in amusement and Tom's already pleased visage almost cracked on its smile.

"Can't argue there," Tom turned to wink at Davy, and then drew the boy across to him.

"Miss Anne Shirley, may I present Master David Keith, known hereabouts as Davy and only occasionally answering to _ruffian._ "

Davy extended a dubious hand, which Anne shook solemnly.

"Very pleased to meet you, Davy."

"And you, Miss. Are you Tom's girl, then? I want to know."

 _That_ further question seemed to prompt a great flurry of activity, with Anne invited to the table, making Mrs Rachel Lynde's proper acquaintance en route, and pausing to shake hands again with Matthew, the two smiling at one another warmly.

There was a generous spread the likes to rival anything Mrs Barry had tried to produce in the past two days; sandwiches and cakes and other homemade delicacies, with tea for the adults and milk for the children, and the now-famous preserves that had been a very popular addition to the breakfast table at Diana's rooms until, another week after Tom had left, Anne made her rather reluctant way back to her boarding house at the college.

Anne looked about in incredulous indecision at the embarrassment of riches, and glanced sheepishly at Marilla, who was looking across at her with an expression, if Anne had known the lady better, that might have been described as _wistful._

"This is all so wonderful… I hardly know where to begin!" Anne's bright smile tried not to waver, and there was an attempt by both Mrs Lynde and Marilla to assist her in this endeavour by offers of apple turnovers * and plum puffs respectively, and Anne was politic and hungry enough to take a generous serving of each.

There was much pleasant chatter as the meal progressed, and Anne found herself fascinated by the interplay of relationships she observed. Matthew, quiet and calm; seemingly removed from the ebb and flow of the conversation and yet his expression showed he followed it avidly, pausing to smile and nod encouragingly in her direction whenever she glanced at him at the far head of the table. To his one side was little Dora, happily concentrating on her food with an earnestness and relish befitting the most starved orphan, though here again Matthew was quietly attentive to her, and Tom made sure to involve her in aspects of the conversation she was comfortable with. Davy, seated by his sister and almost opposite Anne, seemed to shovel an unending array of morsels into his mouth, accompanying a rapid fire commentary on every topic broached, and at other times stopped to stare at her with an amusing, fascinated wonderment, as if trying to answer his own questions about her (of which she was sure he had many). Marilla quietly instructed Davy on various forgotten aspects of his table manners on his other side, amusedly admonishing, in a serious tone overlayed with an exasperated and undeniable fondness.

Anne was seated on the opposite side of the table, between Tom and Mrs Lynde. The former was a smilingly sympathetic foil for the latter's excitable, ceaseless conversation, which ranged in topic and occasionally in volume, and neatly covered the time from Tom's arrival at Green Gables to her own. Mrs Lynde's fondness and admiration for Tom had grown, by her own admission, from her initial underwhelmed first impression of him to her undeniable gratitude resulting from the terrible day of her own Thomas's departure from this good earth. A lasting image that would stay with Mrs Lynde, and now Anne, forever, was of Tom, on desperate summons from the other end of the lane, carrying a rapidly ailing Thomas Lynde in his arms from the back shed into the house, so that he might have the decency and comfort of dying in his own bed.

There was little doubt in Anne's mind that Tom had become the steady, beating heart at the centre of this eclectic, loving, cobbled-together family.

 _Family._ She hadn't known what to expect from her visit and the unsolicited thought was one she had to bat away for now, lest she start watering her third cup of tea with her tears.

Finally Marilla, with an astute observation of Anne's too-flushed features, gently urged Tom to take her for a tour of the farm, with the aid of Matthew and the wide-eyed twins in tow.

"Have you _never_ seena cow up close?" was soon Davy's gobsmacked question to Tom's gentle ribbing of her; another promise remembered.

"Well, you see, I'm a bit of a city girl, Davy, though not always by choice," Anne explained patiently, the air and the gentle sun helping to restore her equilibrium. " _My_ milk has always arrived in bottles from the milkman, left on my doorstep."

Davy and Dora exchanged an amused, almost disbelieving glance at this information, as if Anne had confided she also believed money actually _did_ grow on trees and that pigs were natural-born aviators.

"What else don't you know about farms?" came the young man's reply.

"Now Davy," Matthew chastised mildly, "mind you keep a polite tongue in your head round our company."

Davy frowned. "Yes, Matthew." He turned his clear, beguiling hazel eyes up to Anne's. "I'm not trying to be mean, Miss Anne. I just want to know."

This led to Anne's full and sorry confession regarding everything from her inability to separate wheat from chaff, both literally and often metaphorically, to her having never seen a fresh-laid egg, let alone the chicken who may have been responsible.

Davy and Dora thought it incumbent upon themselves to extend Anne's education post-haste, and they all spent a merry hour circling the property, pointing out both the pleasures and the pains of life on the farm, culminating in an impromptu, interactive milking session with the assistance of one of their more affable cows.

"Now, you need a certain way about you when milking a cow," Matthew's soft, reassuring voice instructed a game but trepidatious Anne, perched precariously on the milking stool whilst the children had been banished to the other end of the stall, lest their anticipated laughter make things even more difficult. "Gentle but firm. Cows can see all about but they have trouble knowing how far away you are. Give her a pat, talk nice and soft and low to her, let her know you're there."

Anne looked into the kind blue eyes of Matthew Cuthbert, and then into the equally blue, equally kind yet resolutely twinkling eyes of Tom, standing sentinel not far behind Matthew. Anne suddenly felt every silly notion she had ever coaxed a reluctant Tom into at the asylum keenly; it was rather awful to be cajoled into doing something you had absolutely no confidence in tackling. Anne swallowed her reluctance and patted the soft hide determinedly. If nothing else she thought herself equal to the task of exchanging a greeting with a cow.

Anne crooned lullaby words to her, ignoring the sight on her periphery of Dora's amused smile and Davy stuffing his sleeve into his mouth to stop his ready guffaws. She daren't look at Tom.

"That's the way, now," Matthew encouraged. "Being patient is the thing. Dora may turn into one of our best milkers because she knows to be patient; Davy's still learnin' that lesson. Marilla's a good milker too, when her mind's on it. Milked all our cows for years 'afore Tom came to us."

"And Tom?" her face was hot as Matthew's large, work-reddened hand closed over her small lily white one, motioning her to feel for the teat with her thumb and forefinger, gripping firmly but not tightly.

Matthew chuckled knowingly, and Tom's wry reply floated across to her.

"Before or after the cow kicked over my first full pail?"

"Really?" Anne glanced up at him, perversely heartened to think not _everything_ on the farm had come to him as naturally as breathing.

Tom's look was amused, accurately decoding her thoughts.

" ' _The merit of all things lies in their difficulty,'_ ** there, Anne," he gave her what for Tom passed as a smirk.

Anne rolled her eyes to think he was using _Dumas_ against her now, and the very book she had first introduced him to, but she couldn't begrudge him the advice. She merrily wrinkled her passably attractive nose at him, which made him grin all the more, and turned to the cow's udder with new determination.

"Ready thank you, Matthew," she breathed, and with his own smile he secured their hands and began to direct her, as the thin white warm stream hit the pail with a resounding, tinny _whoosh_.

Anne's mouth remained open in amazement, even as she tried to concentrate on the rhythm, and then, miraculously, she found her own fingers applying the pressure, as Matthew Cuthbert pulled back his hands, grinning.

"Atta girl!" he encouraged in his softly smiling voice, and Anne wasn't quite sure if he was referring to herself or the cow, but it hardly mattered.

* * *

Matthew corralled the somewhat protesting children, milk pail between them, and herded them back to the house. Tom lingered with Anne in the afternoon sunshine, grown stronger as the hours passed, as if Nature herself felt a benevolent gladness over her visit, and swept a joyful hand over dull yellow fields turned to golden brilliance under her watch.

Anne raised her face to the rays, basking in the sensation.

"Oh, Tom, do you think this is Paradise, sometimes?" she murmured reverently.

Tom drew his eyes away from her, looking over the fields he had toiled in since a boy, and leaned his long, strong body over the fence.

"I did," he chose the words carefully. "I still _do._ Except, perhaps, in winter, around a half hour before sunrise."

Anne smiled back at him knowingly. "Well, _that_ I can understand. Wasn't there a time when we feared we'd never ever feel warm? That the cold had entered our bones and crept into our souls? And now look at us! We _made_ it, Tom! We both of us made it."

It seemed all he could do was grin at her exclamation, as if still getting used to the way of her again.

"I can't believe you _did_ this, Tom. This farm… this life… the people inside Green Gables. You are responsible for safeguarding all of this."

His sandy brows hiked upwards, and his throat seemed to work hard to form his response.

"You think so?"

Anne's grin turned soft, and for the first time she saw not the man, grown tan and tall and impressive, but the gangly boy, unsure and questioning, never quite having enough faith in himself without her words to bolster him.

"I _know_ so."

His fleeting look of uncertainty steadied itself.

"I always had your voice in my ear, Anne, urging me forward. If I've done anything at all here it's because of you. Your hand is in everything here. You're everywhere. In… in every field I've planted and every… ah… cow I've milked and…" his blue eyes rolled to the heavens. "That started off better in my head," he frowned.

She might have laughed, sharing the joke, but she only remembered the shared vow.

"You were with me too, Tom," she admitted softly. "Always."

He struggled to push the words out. "And now?"

Her own brows hung like a curtain over grey eyes made huge and dark in her face.

"You are _still_ the thought that warms me, Tom," she admitted, as truthfully as she dared.

His tanned face colored, and that muscle moved about his cheek frenetically. His look to her bizarrely mirrored Marilla's; wistful, even sad. Her farm boy… once poor, now perfect, with eyes like the sea after a storm.

"But… I'm not the only one, am I?"

His tone remembered their kiss, and her words to him. Her cheeks grew warm and her eyes darted from his, and she paused for so long he could have been forgiven for thinking she had bitten her own tongue off.

"Anne, I'm sorry… forget I ever…"

"No, Tom, you are entitled to the question… I'm just… I just…" she blundered helplessly. "I just can't give up the warmth, from either of you. It makes me so selfish. I'm so sorry. But you _know,_ Tom! You know what it's like to cling onto any light in the darkness, any warm shaft permeating the cold. And all I can say to you is… is… _your_ warmth is so central to me, to who I am, because you were the first one I ever felt it from, and I can't…"

Any further explanation, any continued attempts to reconcile her thoughts, were muffled against his chest, and arms as steel around her, as he murmured soothingly.

"Sorry, Anne! _I'm_ the one who is sorry. You never have to explain anything. Not to me. Because I _do_ know it. I thought… I thought… I'd lost that warmth, when I lost my mother. But you… you gave it back to me. I would never have been able to feel it here, from Marilla or Matthew, if I hadn't known it from _you_ first."

The wheat fields seemed to wave approving testimony to his declaration. She allowed herself his embrace, and his words, but not her tears.

"I wonder what Mrs Cadbury would make of us now, becoming so sappy!" she made herself laugh, blinking eyes rapidly and drawing out of his embrace. "And I can't even _think_ what Katherine would say about this!"

Tom took her determined tease as his cue, dropping his large hands from her and shoving them into his pockets.

"Well, I don't know about your Katherine Brooke, Anne. But _I_ have Mrs Rachel Lynde. And she would say _plenty_ about this, believe me. She would say plenty about this all the way to Carmody and back."

"Oh dear!" that got a genuine laugh from Anne now.

"Just be grateful we're hidden behind the barn where she can't see us."

There was a green spark to Anne's large grey eyes at this knowledge. He might have said it was a look he remembered from long, long ago, mostly proceeding her attempts to have him do something very ill advised.

"What say we give her something to talk _about_?" the green shone bright now, and her lips were curved knowingly.

And that was how it came to pass that Rachel Lynde, absolutely at the ready stationed at the kitchen window, having taken an inordinate amount of time with the dishes, was properly scandalised at the view of Tom and Miss Anne Shirley, hand in hand, all the way up from the barn to the very front door.

* * *

Anne thought she might be all right, that she might hold on through all the farewells and extracted promises… through Matthew's shy yet warm, fatherly embrace; through Davy's desperate demand that she return, accompanied by Dora's determined nod of accord; through Mrs Rachel Lynde's shrewdly knowing look and peck on the cheek; through even Marilla's grasp of her hands with both her own, and the surprising glint in her eyes and waver to her smile… might have survived all of it intact, and Tom's goodbye too, if not for Gilbert's unexpected arrival.

* * *

It had been a long while since Gilbert had stepped up onto the verandah of Green Gables, to knock on the bold green door to collect Tom for whatever youthful escapade he and the boys had planned that day. It was always with a tremor of trepidation, however misplaced, covered over with his characteristic charm and confidence, even though it was so very many years ago since his father had knocked in the same manner, and he himself could hardly be called to account for _that_ outcome.

The Cuthberts, brother and sister, had been a mysterious presence to him growing up; before Alberta, at the very least. He would see Mr Cuthbert occasionally at the store, or Miss Cuthbert at church; quite liking the shy reserve of the former and always vaguely aware of the latter's eyes following him, with a sad sort of curiosity it would take him years – and the one frank, pained conversation with his father – to understand. Once Tom had arrived, to the incredulity of the general Avonlea populace, it seemed to galvanise Matthew and Marilla Cuthbert both; they became a much more commonplace presence about the town, and though never at the epicentre of goings on, there was a general sense of connection with - and _for_ \- them to their community that had certainly never existed before.

And Tom, it was obvious, had been the quiet conduit of this change, and absolutely, credit where it was due, the one responsible for the transformation of Green Gables into something both productive and profitable. He had even been one of the first to bring mechanisation to Avonlea, and was making back the money on his mighty threshing machine by hiring it out – for a very modest sum, naturally – for Tom Caruthers would be the last person to attempt to take advantage. Gilbert stuttered on the new thought… would his honourable nature extend to his dealings with _Anne?_

Gilbert determinedly brushed the doubt aside. He had known Tom since they were both still boys. He couldn't completely account for the closeness he and Anne shared, but he wouldn't be strangled by the dark hand of petty jealousy. Anne deserved better. And so, perhaps, did Tom.

Gilbert took a breath and rapped on the door.

"Gilbert Blythe!" Marilla Cuthbert greeted, clearly astonished to see him.

"Good afternoon, Miss Cuthbert. I was calling at Orchard Slope earlier when Diana was asked by Mrs Barry to collect some things in town for the picnic they're hosting on Tuesday. It was going to take a while so I offered to come over and collect Anne. That is, Miss Shirley."

Gilbert found himself ushered into the house, his hazel eyes darting about until they settled on large grey ones. Diana had laid claim to Anne upon their arrival in Avonlea, taking her hosting duties most seriously, and he had only seen her once since they had departed Bright River; he had gone to seek her out at Orchard Slope in near desperation today, only to find she was still here with Tom. He could have kissed Mrs Barry in gratitude for the mission to Green Gables, and the happy stolen moments with Anne it might afford. So now his eyes gleamed at hers, and he quickly detected Anne's wavering resolve in her too-bright smile hiding trembling lips. His eyebrows drew down in concern. Had she not had a pleasant time? Had she felt too hemmed-in by the well meaning folk now gushing their goodbyes to her?

Tom stepped forward to shake his hand. "Gilbert." He smiled widely, if a mite carefully.

"Good to see you, Tom. How do you do Mr Cuthbert, Mrs Lynde, Davy, Dora," he nodded politely to each in turn. "You've had a fine day for your visit here, Anne," he added generously.

"It's been quite wonderful," Anne answered in a voice that was an excellent imitation of her own, but felt too tremulous to his ears.

"Tom, Diana wanted me to especially remind you about Tuesday, and to extend the invitation to Davy and Dora. I hear Minnie May would be very glad of their company once _we_ all start to become too boring." Gilbert flashed a smile.

"Thank you, Gilbert. Ah, Anne… if you could give acceptance for all of us, to Diana and the Barrys, and our thanks." Tom had turned towards the slight girl-woman, cheeks as aflame as her hair.

"Thank you, Tom. I would be very pleased to. I may be engaged in helping Diana on Monday so I… I look forward to seeing you at the picnic."

Tom held his smile for her, Gilbert saw, and her look lit him the way it had done back in Kingsport. Gilbert tried not to let the memory intrude, though it was more difficult to suppress the idea of their simpatico seeing it played out before his very eyes. He remembered the idiot he had made of himself back at Diana's rooms that day, Phil having to talk him down from his frustration and dejection, till he had shared that moment with Anne out in the little terrace. Of their _book,_ waiting patiently on the shelf for them. Only… Anne was a voracious reader… and the shelf was becoming crowded with other books she was collecting along the way…

 _Stop it, Blythe, you damned fool!_

Gilbert cleared his throat, though the next offer would be painful for him to make.

"Forgive me for intruding inadvertently; I'll wait outside for you, Anne. Good afternoon ladies, Tom, Mr Cuthbert, Davy."

Gilbert smiled and nodded again, as if not having a care in the world, as if absolutely reconciled to giving Anne and Tom a private moment of farewell as he lost no time in showing himself out and nearly staggered back down the steps. The day was Avonlea's finest of their stay so far, and he prayed it would continue into the morrow, when he would escort Anne after church to his own family and his own farm. Would she be happy to come? Would she wish she was back at Green Gables, with the blonde boy she had inexplicably known when she herself was still a girl? Or would she be reconciled to her past now; to shut the one book firmly and take down the other?

He sighed and patted their horse, and then climbed up into the buggy, taking the reins more firmly than he ought; old Bess protested this affront and he relaxed his large hands, murmuring his apology.

Anne emerged several minutes later, laden with a basket of goods; the others stood on the steps to wave her off, though Tom, naturally, came to help her up beside him.

"Thank you, Gilbert," Tom nodded. "Best regards to your parents."

"Thank you, Tom."

"Bye, Anne," he whispered.

"Goodbye Tom," Anne barely managed, before Gilbert clicked the reins and they were down the long drive and through the gate, Anne pausing to turn back to the house and give a final wave to its occupants.

"Well, I hope you have room for my mother's baking tomorrow, Anne!" Gilbert nodded at the basket nestled awkwardly at her feet, trying to arrest the haunted look that had come over her with the determined lightness of his tone.

"Oh yes… of course…" Anne nodded, her face pale against the sunlight.

"Anne… you'll be able to see them again…" he offered gently, and then through teeth he tried not to grit, "you'll be able to see… _him…_ again."

Anne looked up to him through eyes made dark and limpid with her unshed tears.

"That was very good of you, to give us a moment," her eyes refused to draw away from his. "I know… I know this is not… _easy…_ for you. I hate that I – "

"Anne, don't worry about me! _Your_ happiness is what concerns me. But you look so upset now... What's the matter? Please tell me! Did something happen at Green Gables? Did you not have a nice time, or – "

"I had a _lovely_ time!" Anne wailed, and then began to sob right in front of him.

Gilbert's eyes grew wide, and he stopped the buggy without ceremony.

"Anne!"

"I can't breathe! I can't breathe!" Anne gasped, and threw herself down out of the buggy, beginning to run for the fence, and then, to his utter astonishment, she clambered through it and staggered into the nearest field, cutting a haphazard path through the bobbing heads of wheat with her long skirts and erratic movements.

Gilbert jumped down himself, hastily securing the horse before following her, darting a look around to see they had to still be on Green Gables land, which was a mercy at least.

She didn't make it far before collapsing in a crumpled heap, sobs racking her slight body, and the sound and sight of her distress was like a knife to his heart, the blade clean and new and polished to the gilt, plunging in effortlessly.

" _Anne!_ " he dropped to his knees beside her. "Anne, darling!"

The endearment, long fought against, blurted from him, as if steam shooting from the funnel of a departing train. She paused at it, diverted enough to momentarily halt her tears, but then recommenced even louder than before.

"Oh, Gil…" she moaned, and the knife twisted inside him mercilessly. He choked on her name again and gathered her in his arms.

"Anne… _please._ "

"Family…" she gave a strangled sound. "I didn't… realise… how much of a _family_ they were."

"Family?" he echoed. "You mean Tom? And the Cuthberts?"

"All of them!" she cried. "All of them, Gilbert! I thought I could manage… To not think if it had been _me._ I thought I would be all right…"

"Anne…" he tried desperately to make sense of things. "Didn't you like it there? I won't have you go back if it will upset you so much! I'll talk to Tom and – "

" _No,_ Gilbert!" she pleaded, her slim hand grasping the lapel of his jacket, and her eyes drew to his, wild and pleading. "You must never talk of this! Of how foolish I've been! He must never know! It would break him!"

Gilbert wondered at the wisdom and fairness of this but nodded regardless.

"Of course… _as you wish_." He gazed at her for long moments, and then took out his hankerchief and began to mop at her face gently. "And you're not _foolish,_ Anne. That would be _inconceivable_. Wonderfully perplexing, certainly, but never foolish."

She gave a broken laugh, submitting to his ministrations.

"You must be wondering what's gotten into me," she admitted shamefacedly.

"You don't have to worry what I think. You don't have to explain anything to me you don't want to, Anne."

She gave an agonised look to him at these words, and then offered a little chagrined smile, shaking her head sadly.

"I _do_ need to explain to you, Gilbert. But I need you to promise me… that you'll never breathe a word of it. To _anyone_."

"I promise," he vowed, his eyes as earnest as his words.

And so she recounted the tale, of which he'd only heard choice snippets, previously neatly tailored for his ears, but now raw and frayed. Of the broken boy and girl, not chance acquaintances over at the orphanage at Hopetown, after all, but residents together, friends and comrades and more than that besides, they two against the world. Anne lingered on anecdotes such as of a boy galloping, seemingly headless, through the dormitory, and tripped, white-faced, over the visit of an Inspector and its hideous consequences. Gilbert could barely stand to listen, eyes closed tight against the truth of it as Anne settled on the ground and leant with her back against him, seeming to release a droplet of pent-up pain with every word. But there was more, of course… the family on the Island across the strait that was hers and yet not, and the boy who had landed on the Green Gables doorstep instead, never quite believing it was his place to be there. Gilbert remembered that pale, colorless ghost, who sleepwalked through those early weeks of school, having sensed there was something in him that was broken but too self involved to properly discover how or why. And much later… the now-tanned face turned pale at a New Year's dance, looking down on a letter he had almost lost hope of ever receiving.

Anne by the end was as exhausted as the sun beginning its slow migration westward, and lay her head against his shoulder.

There were long minutes of silence whilst Gilbert tried to process this incredible story; this wrenching, horrific, nightmarish tale.

"Oh, Anne…" he murmured, as if attempting to soothe those long-ago hurts, now made new again. "Anne…" his voice felt tight; his larynx stretched and strained. "I don't… I can't… I can't tell you how sorry I am. And _angry._ And – " _Damn,_ he thought despairingly. _At a time like this, that's all you can think to say?_

"You need to put it away, Gilbert," she sighed. "You really can't go on unless you put it away…" He felt her take a shuddering breath. "I used to imagine the disappointments and the pain and the hurts as heavy stones in my pocket. And I would empty my pockets of them one by one, till I had let them all go…"

His response was to wrap his arms around her. "And now?" he breathed.

There was a pause; a heaviness in the spring air.

"And now… I try not to be so good a collector."

He smiled at the strength and determination behind the comment.

"You could have come to Avonlea…" it suddenly occurred to him. "You could have sat across from me in school."

"Maybe…" she faltered, perhaps, this once, truly allowing herself the thought. "If the mistake hadn't been noted; if Mrs Spencer hadn't come the same day to collect Lily… if… if… the Cuthberts hadn't sent me back."

His arms around her tightened. "What were you like at eleven?" he asked huskily.

Her laugh was short and sharp. "Impossible! You should ask Katherine one time."

"Maybe I will," he chuckled into her hair, resting his cheek against it. "Considering she and I are such great friends now."

Her response was a ripple of genuine laughter, and then she paused, as if considering something problematic.

"I wonder, sometimes, if you and _I_ would have been friends," she mused quietly.

"Of course!" he scoffed. "Aren't we friends now? I told you way back, out in that storm we were caught in at Redmond, that we would make excellent friends, Anne. Providence thought so, too. You couldn't come to Avonlea, and so you just found all of us elsewhere."

He imagined her smiling at that, but she was still facing away from him.

"I rather think that you found _me,_ Gilbert," there was a catch in her voice. "And you led me to Diana and all the others… and to Tom."

"Well, the fact is, it seems you were destined to meet up with Tom again, regardless," his throat had tightened anew. And then he added, with a quiet fervour, "I owe him a debt, Anne."

"Gilbert…"

"He safeguarded you when he was still just a boy. The things that _could_ have happened… they're unthinkable. He was courageous and loyal and quick thinking. I _am_ in his debt, Anne. Even if he never knows it, I _do_. I won't forget it."

There was nothing that could be said to that, so neither tried.

"Thank you for listening, Gilbert…" Anne ventured after a time. "For understanding and for… being here."

"I'll always be here for you, Anne. Here this now; I will always come for you. And thank _you_ for trusting me with this. With _all_ of your story. At least… I really hope it is. I don't think I could cope with any more revelations."

She turned to him, finally, her hair backgrounded by the russet-streaked sky, her eyes glowing emeralds against a bed of silver-grey.

"I do have one tiny _final_ admission…" she announced gravely.

"Oh?" his deep voice wavered uncertainly. _Please, God, let no one else have laid a finger on her._

"Yes," she grinned suddenly. "I milked a cow today."

He didn't know what he might have guessed at, but it certainly wasn't _that._ His relief burst from him in a rush of laughter, knocking him backwards into the dented crop of wheat that had sheltered them. Anne joined in his laughter, her face hovering above his, and all he had to do was reach out a hand to cup her cheek and drag her down with him, forgotten by propriety and the world.

 _Oh, Anne…_ he longed to say. _How I love you._

Instead he rose to sitting again, shaking stray stalks out of his unruly curls, seizing her hand to press it to his lips.

"Oh, Anne, how you always surprise me," he offered instead.

She gave him her starry smile, which after the agony of her tears and her admission was the best gift he could have received.

Gilbert scrambled up and assisted her as well, watching as she shook out her skirts and composed herself, patting down her hair.

"Am I presentable again?" she asked with a wry look.

" ' _There be none of Beauty's daughters_

 _With a magic like Thee'"_ *** he quoted softly in reply.

Her fierce blush fought for dominance with her hair and the sky, and with a reassuring smile he took her hand and led her back to the buggy, picking their way carefully through another promising crop from Green Gables, which seemed to bow in parting at their passage.

* * *

Marilla didn't realise she was smiling until she caught her reflection in the cabinet as she put away the best china, pausing to stare at the weathered face transformed by the simple, unconscious action. There had been a time, so, so long ago, almost forgotten in the swirling mists of memory, when she had smiled with abandon; and laughed readily; and danced in her room, contemplating another reflection; when she had stared at herself in her best dress, and relived large tanned hands at her waist and soft lips pressed to hers.

It was nonsense to even think of it now, of course; to remember how her heart had thundered at the sight of another tall, broad-shouldered man at the door, all affable, grinning charm and dark curls. Gilbert Blythe had his mother's eyes but in every other way he was his father all over, down to the worrying, steady look of devotion his boy had given Anne Shirley, and which John Blythe had once gifted _her._

Her smile gave way to an uneasiness that clouded the resolute sunshine of their guest's visit; she who had charmed the room, including Rachel Lynde; who had engaged both Davy and Dora alike; who had sent Matthew smiling into his newspaper long afterwards; and who had evidently given Tom wings in the way he had afterwards soared about the house, swooping to give Rachel a kiss on the cheek and enfolding Marilla in a loving embrace, whispering his thanks for all her efforts in welcoming their very special visitor.

Rachel had been delighted to inform, once Tom had departed to catch up on assorted jobs, that she had seen, with her very own eyes, the sight of Tom and Miss Anne Shirley, stepping hand in hand from the back of the barn all the way to their very front door. Rachel by her own admission set no store by women's further education. However, she had been rather pleased by their visitor's lack of airs and graces, and even more pleased by her admiration of the fine lacework on the large tablecloth that had once adorned the table at Lynde's Hollow, and so was prepared, this once, to overlook this big-city boldness.

Marilla had very much liked what she had seen, too; Anne Shirley was a vibrant rainbow come into their gently-hued world. She was a young lady now, certainly, with what Marilla suspected had been a hard-won polish and poise, though she occasionally let the curtain of confidence fall to reveal the girl perhaps still hoping, rather heartbreakingly, for approval and acceptance. Marilla could easily see why she had inspired such feelings of loyalty and devotion in Tom and how he had held fast to the idea of her for the better part of a decade. It saddened Marilla to think of the girl left behind in the rescuing of her boy grown to man; to think of Green Gables without Tom was untenable, but Anne Shirley, left without a true home all these years, was an uncomfortable gnaw of regret at her insides. Might they, even now, help the girl whom Tom looked upon as friend and clearly so much more?

Marilla tossed and turned that night, puzzling over how she would manage it.

* * *

" _Someone_ was dropped off awfully late after being collected from Green Gables," Diana Barry smiled knowingly into the mirror of her dressing table, dark eyes full of teasing merriment as her reflection caught Anne's blush as she reclined on the pillows on the bed.

Anne had been offered the guest room on her arrival at Orchard Slope, and although the idea of a guest room always simultaneously thrilled and intimidated her in equal measure (the one of several at Mount Holly had been a veritable palace) she had been all too pleased to share accommodations with Diana. They had already spent several nights up late trading confidences, hopes and dreams in a laughingly girlish manner that was far removed from the decorous, ladylike behaviour Mrs Barry was forever reminding both her girls to adopt.

"Well…" Anne stammered, "it was a surprise to see Gilbert, as I was expecting you and Fred to return…"

"Yes, _indeed,_ " Diana offered a Sphinx-like smile, pausing in her brushing out of raven tresses to arch a perfectly matched brow.

"Diana…?" Anne queried suspiciously.

"Oh, Anne," Diana swivelled in her seat, "Gilbert's face just fell when he called round and discovered you still weren't back from Green Gables. I decided to throw him a bone. It was easy as a wink to start mumbling names of French foodstuffs and musing on ingredients we might be short of; Mother wouldn't know the difference. She dispatched me immediately to go and restock, and Gilbert just happened to be on hand to collect you instead." Her look here was now inordinately satisfied.

" _Diana Barry!_ " Anne wasn't entirely sure if she should be impressed or aghast. "I don't believe it! I'm seeing an entirely new side to you here in Avonlea!"

Diana now grinned unrepentantly, the effect quite mesmerising.

"Were my efforts worth it? Did you have a good time with Tom _and_ with Gilbert?"

Anne was determined that her expression would not waver. "I… did. I had a wonderful time with Tom and his, ah, that is, everyone at Green Gables and I had a very… helpful… talk with Gilbert."

It was not the time, and her emotions were too raw, to explore that discussion _twice_ in one day, and she already observed that Diana was in a buoyant mood and perhaps wanting to indulge in a few secrets of her own.

"And how was young Mr Wright today? You two seemed uncommonly distracted by one another when you dropped me off earlier."

Diana's smile at _this_ was positively beatific.

"Anne… can I trust you with a _very_ great secret? Oh, scratch that – I _know_ I can!" Diana determined giddily. She crossed from her chair to the desk, hair and nightgown billowing romantically as a sail, and foraged in the drawer for what she now extracted, carrying the little package back to sit with it on the bed before Anne. She held out the envelope reverently, and Anne clasped it with a curious look, noting the sender.

"Why Diana – this is from Fred. To your _father._ "

Diana nodded, her dark eyes watching Anne carefully. "It just _happened_ to be sitting under a pile of papers in his office when I went to fetch some notepaper for Mother this morning. I recognised the handwriting of course. There must be others, though Father obviously has them hidden away. Fred has apparently been writing to my parents every fortnight since the new year. Since… we began courting."

Anne's grey eyes widened at this development.

"That's… very dedicated," she offered. "But to what end, Di? Unless he…" Anne halted mid thought. "You don't think that…?"

Diana colored most prettily, the pink stain to her creamy cheeks making her lovely eyes gleam as polished onyx. "It would be so like Fred to make a case for himself; to work to get them on side. Mother especially was quite awful to him when he sought to court me. This latest letter asks… if he may call on Father whilst we are back here these two weeks."

"Diana… that can only mean that he… he wants to ask for your hand!" Anne was suitably gobsmacked.

"Yes…" Diana grew coy, biting her lip. "I believe so."

Anne felt her eyes might bulge out of her head, and banished inappropriate thoughts about poor Charlie Sloane. "Diana, I must say you are preternaturally _calm_ about all this!"

"Am I?" Diana laughed.

"Yes indeed! What would you say? What answer would you give him? Do you love him? Oh – scratch _that!_ I _know_ you love him – but enough to marry him? You've loved Kingsport – do you still see your life _here_? Would you truly go against your parents if they didn't wish it?"

"Well, all those questions and I'm certain I'm not calm _anymore!_ " that alabaster brow wrinkled in exasperation.

"I'm sorry, Diana! I'm badgering you!"

"No, not at all…" Diana took back the letter, stroking it fondly, a little smile hovering about her lips, attempting to land. "They are all important questions. I… I have thought about my answer to each of them, these past few months. I've never doubted Fred's intentions… only the timing of his declaration of them."

Anne swallowed a million excitable retorts, instead searching Diana's beautiful face for a clue as to her feelings. "And if that time is _now?"_ she squeaked.

Diana took a long moment to sequester the letter in its hiding place and reposition herself on the bed before Anne, who had tucked up the covers around her as if settling in for a fantastical bedtime story.

"I _have_ loved Kingsport," Diana ventured thoughtfully, "but not necessarily for the reasons you might think, Anne. Oh, I've been excited to get around a big town and meet new people and see new things. To actually undertake a _course –_ not academic like yours, but still requiring study and practice and attention. It's the first time I've been away from the influence of my family, whether it be here or even my Aunt Josephine in Charlottetown… and I've _survived._ I've managed perfectly fine – _more_ than fine! I've virtually run our household in Kingsport. I've proven to my parents and everyone that I can do it. I've had my Grand Adventure, Anne – or at least what for me amounts to it. I don't think I'm missing out anymore. I've seen what's out there and come the summer I'll be ready to move back and make my life here. _My_ life, mind, and not Mother's."

Anne's eyes were shining by the end of this speech. "You are simply wonderful, Diana Barry."

"I don't know about that…" she murmured, flushing.

"You see things so clearly… to know _what_ you want… and _how…_ and even _why…_ and you are very firm regarding the _where…_ " Anne reached out to grasp soft, dimpled hands in hers. "So now all that's missing is the _who!_ " she grinned.

"That's all very well, thank you, Miss Anne, with _two_ beaux lined up, ready to fight to the death over you!"

Anne borrowed Diana's blush. "I believe that is a very poor attempt to avoid the question!"

Diana chuckled knowingly. "Ruby and Jane and I used to discuss all manner of romantic notions about the sort of man we would marry. Jane was too practical and Ruby too fanciful. I really only ever wanted a good man, Anne. Someone who loved me and whom I could work together with to make a good home."

"Well…" Anne's grip tightened. "You have a very, _very_ good man there, Diana." Anne's thoughts drifted to Fred's efforts on their behalf whilst she and Gilbert had been in Summerside. "And he adores you. Anyone can see that. He's a hard worker; steady, determined and industrious and not put off by anything. He fulfils all your _requirements,_ Miss Barry! Though does he fulfil the most important one? Are you _made and meant for each other?_ " ****

"I'll know if he asks me!" Diana replied spiritedly, with a glint to her eye.

"Very well, then!" Anne giggled.

"Though Anne… to be serious for a moment," it was now Diana's turn to grasp hands, "I can't feel that I'm on eggshells forever. Would you keep an eye out for me at the picnic Tuesday? I'll be so distracted I won't know if Fred's gone off in a hot air balloon, let alone snuck into Father's office for half an hour."

"I will!" Anne nodded sincerely, and then with an equal gleam of cheekiness, "or is that _I do?"_

* * *

Gilbert was in meditative mood as he headed back from Orchard Slope to Blythe Farm, nearly running Fred over in the buggy in his distraction over his conversation with Anne.

"Sorry, Fred, my mind's obviously on other things!" Gilbert laughed in apology, offering his friend a lift home.

"I know the feeling…" Fred grumbled, settling beside him with a huff.

"So, you first then," Gilbert raised a dark brow, his lips curled upwards.

" _Me?"_

"What's on your mind? Or indeed _whom?"_

"Indeed," Fred nodded, trying to chuckle but only succeeding in looking more perturbed.

"Did you and Diana have a fight?"

"A _fight?"_ Fred looked both astonished and affronted by the suggestion. "Of course not!"

Gilbert put a hand up in surrender. "Alright, good to know!"

"I'm just finding it hard to get the opportunity to propose to her," he offered baldly.

Gilbert, rather unfortunately still gripping the reins one handed at this juncture, was not best placed to negotiate a tricky bend on uneven ground, and nearly tipped over they two and buggy both in his surprise.

"Honestly, Fred, give a fellow some warning!" Gilbert called over the protest of Bess and the racket of of wheels squealing in attempt to right themselves.

"Sorry, Gil," Fred puffed, holding onto the seat and rather literally shaken out of his dejection.

"I think you'd better go back to the beginning," Gilbert advised. "You really mean to propose to Diana? Whilst we're all home?"

"Where better?"

Gilbert was agog. "Well, that's… that's marvellous, Fred! I mean, that's…"

Fred's small smile was knowing. "You think she won't say _yes._ "

"No! of course not!" Gilbert spluttered uncharacteristically. "That's not it at all. It's just… that… I don't know if _Mrs Barry_ will!"

"Well, yes, there's _that…_ " Fred frowned, his large hand rubbing the creases of worry at his forehead. "I've been working on her for a while. Mr _and_ Mrs Barry. Fortnightly letters from Kingsport since New Year, outlining all the recovered finances for our farm, plans for the future, that sort of thing."

"Fred… I had no idea. I mean, yes, that you were serious about Diana, but…"

"Diana doesn't know about all that groundwork… she doesn't really have to know. It's not important. Anyway, all I'm trying to do is to have a talk with her father. But it's impossible to do that without her knowing, being if she's home, and then when she's _not_ home I'm usually out with her anyway."

"I see the dilemma. I guess, then, this is not the time to tell you Diana was out of the house this afternoon in the village, shopping for Tuesday's picnic. I actually picked up Anne myself from Green Gables."

"That's alright – I already know. I met Diana this afternoon, quite by accident," Fred sighed heartily at another lost opportunity. "How'd it go with Anne?"

Gilbert smiled softly. " _Well._ I think… very well, in the end. She's a remarkable girl."

Fred gave a sideways glance, and shook his head at his friend's lovelorn expression.

"Well, have a word with her, will you? About what sort of poetry girls like."

This elicited a great guffaw from his companion. "About what sort of _poetry girls like_?"

"Oh, I know you go around with Anne, quoting sonnets and Shakespeare and serenading trees and goodness knows. I just thought… if I could write down my feelings in a letter for Diana, you know, in case I got stuck or… well, I could give it to her, with a little poem perhaps, and she could consider my offer."

Gilbert looked back to his gentle friend with a countenance now transformed by his admiration and fondness.

"I'm sure Di would love that, Fred. Though she will love to hear your own feelings just as well."

"Yes, but I'm no orator like you are, Gil. I never was. But Diana… she _does_ love all those things – reading and poetry and learning. Just not as showily as, say, Phil or Anne. I just wanted her to know that… well, that she wouldn't be cut off from that, with me. That I wasn't just some ignorant farmer."

"The man soon to have a diploma from Kingsport Commercial College is far from ignorant," Gilbert argued loyally.

"Well, not as ignorant as I _was,"_ Fred began to recover his humour.

" _I_ could help you with the poem, you know."

Fred looked askance. "I wouldn't want anything too flowery or…"

" _She walks in beauty, like the night,"_ Gilbert recited,

 _Of cloudless climes and starry skies;_

 _And all that's best of dark and bright_

 _Meet in her aspect and her eyes…"_ *****

"Oh, well, then, that's lovely," Fred acknowledged. "I think she would like that."

"It's perfect! Lord Byron. We've been studying him in class."

"Byron? Wasn't he a bit… you know… racy?"

"Yes, but don't let that put you off. This poem has none of that. Just pure unadulterated love and worship for the girl. He even speaks of _raven tresses._ "

Fred gave a soft smile. "Well, then."

"I'll bring it over on Monday for you. Or better still, I'll copy it out. It's not long. Then you won't have to lug the volume around, pretending it's a farm manual."

"Thanks, Gil."

"Fred, any way I can help, I'm here. I'd be delighted."

The easy red found Fred's cheeks.

''Thanks again. Really. I guess there _is_ one more thing. I'm going to try to see Mr Barry at the picnic. I thought it would be smaller, but it seems Diana's invited everyone – Charlie and Ruby and Moody and Josie and Gertie too, and Tom and then Priscilla's coming across from Spencervale…" he sighed. "There will be a lot happening, and Diana will be busy, but just incase…"

"Say no more. I'm excellent at coming up with distractions."

Fred laughed. "I went to school with you, so I pretty much know that!"

"And you'd propose soon after?"

"I want it to be a surprise. And I don't want to leave it too long, and risk the Barrys changing their minds."

Gilbert chuckled and slapped him on the back. "You are a brave man taking the Barrys on, Fred. Diana's more than worth it, but still, better start developing a thick skin."

"To go with my thick head?"

Gilbert laughed. "The thick heads might be the night _before_ your wedding! If you even know when that would be?"

" _Years_ yet, probably. At least two. Maybe three. I want to save up for our own place, actually."

Gilbert let out a low whistle. "A potential _three year_ engagement? You sure you'd last that long?" his hazel eyes flashed merriment.

"Says the man not quite a _year_ into his bachelor's degree."

Gilbert groaned. "Don't remind me!"

They had reached the Wright's farm, and the friends sat together in the twilight, silently contemplating the future.

"I can see you two being very happy together," Gilbert acknowledged quietly, head nodding to emphasize his pronouncement.

"Thanks Gil. I hope so. Though nothing's certain, of course. And I have to survive Tuesday, first."

"Don't we all!" Gilbert grinned, shaking his hand before Fred hopped down nimbly, and he turned the buggy and his thoughts again to home, and the guest he would bring back there tomorrow.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

My title, as previously, is taken from _Anne of the Island_ (Ch 23)

*Freely accepting _**oz diva's**_ New Canon renderings of Marilla and Rachel's polite war over pastries; please see the marvellous one-shot ' _Ten Children, That's What!'_ for further enlightenment.

**Alexandre Dumas _The Three Musketeers_ (1844). You may remember it is Tom's favourite book; my Anne's, unsurprisingly and referenced many times before is _Jane Eyre_ (so glad the writers of _Anne with an E_ agree with me!) My Diana's is _Little Women;_ Gilbert and others are still yet to declare which tome is to have their allegiance. Phil will perhaps never be able to resolve this issue.

***George, Lord Byron from _'There Be None of Beauty's Daughters: Stanzas for Music'_

**** _Anne of the Island_ (Ch 23)

*****George, Lord Byron _'She Walks in Beauty'_


	24. Chapter 24 A Fortnight of Halcyon Days 3

**Chapter Twenty Four**

 **A Fortnight of Halcyon Days**

 **Part Three**

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _Thank you firstly to everyone for their truly lovely response to the previous chapter – particularly regarding a certain hazel eyed young man's quoting of what you correctly noted to be 'The Princess Bride'. If you haven't seen it (or indeed read William Goldman's novel) please do so. You won't regret the time spent with Westley and Buttercup, and if you ever want a visual for my Tom, you could do worse than pay attention to THIS filmic farm boy… after all, Tom in the asylum had a go at imaginary swordfighting, and his favourite book isn't 'The Three Musketeers' for nothing..._

 _With thanks to all the wonderful reviewers who remain so faithful (and so patient with me as I get back to you so slowly) and to many new reviewers whose comments are equally thrilling._

 _And very, very grateful thanks to_ _ **elizasky**_ _for her brilliant beta read of this chapter and the next._

 _This chapter now will be the third of FOUR and you won't have to wait long for the next update – I assure you!_

 _We are going to really motor along with our narrative now and have some exciting times ahead!_

 _With love_

 _MrsVonTrapp x_

* * *

Adela Blythe wondered if it was still acceptable to remind one's son of appropriate behaviour in church, being that the son in question was a tall, broad shouldered, strapping twenty-one; a former schoolmaster and current Redmond undergraduate and, the good Lord help them all, a future medical doctor, if hard work, good luck and Providence had anything to do with it.

Gilbert sat on the edge of the polished hardwood pew beside her; all jangling knees, tapping feet and drumming fingers; his entire body a marionette on a stick, unable to be stilled or directed. She had tried several clearings of her throat and pointed looks to which he had remained annoyingly oblivious, particularly as his attention was almost solely focussed on the girl with the strikingly-hued hair and the excellent posture opposite them but one, who stared ahead as if transfixed by the rather dull sermon, except for the occasions when she would incline her ear to catch some smilingly whispered aside from Diana Barry.

They had been introduced before church; the lovely Miss Barry, who was her father George all over but for her tight-lipped mother's lustrous, thick hair, firstly making apologies for her own absence that afternoon due to preparations for the picnic gathering at Orchard Slope the day after next, and then Miss Anne Shirley herself stepping forward with shining eyes and blushing smile, handshake as firm as her husband himself had found it.

Adela was more than curious – nay, even anxious – to meet this famed girl at last; she of Shakespeare and framed pictures of Catholic saints and illicit trips to Summerside. Well, she _was_ exceedingly pretty, as John had observed, with unusual looks that, broken down into individual parts, were somewhat overwhelming, but presented together transformed her into a picture of youthful vigour and charm, with intelligent eyes and rich humour in the quirk of her lips. She was tallish and slight, with a trim figure to rival her own, and though her dress was lacking a little flair and adornment, the mint green suited her wonderfully, and set off a pearlescent complexion and that rather remarkable hair. She fixed her gaze on herself and then John, only daring to dart a glance up to Gilbert at the last moment, and when those grey eyes met the hazel of her son's the green flared instantaneously within them, and Adela was transfixed by the metamorphosis; in that moment, Anne Shirley was beautiful.

And Gilbert was quite smitten, she saw at once, with a mother's unique ache; for the better, Adela prayed, and not for the worse.

After church they congregated in the promising sunshine, watching Anne farewell the Barrys temporarily and thank the Cuthberts and Tom Caruthers again for her visit the previous day; Tom's own affection for Miss Shirley clear to see and now it seemed the fast growing, flaxen haired twins could be added into the bargain. John and Marilla Cuthbert made their own usual overpolite greeting to one another; it had been tremendously awkward to see Marilla in the years when Adela herself had been a young bride and then a new mother; the coming of her own strapping boy to Green Gables had been such a relief to the Blythes, too, in ways that were keenly felt if rarely overtly expressed.

Gilbert directed Anne Shirley to their buggy with an unashamed grin, and they all enjoyed a long, chatty ride back to the farm, Gilbert then escorting Anne to the house and over the threshold with such ceremony that John, walking with her behind them, smirked and rolled his eyes to the heavens, to such an exaggerated degree that Adela had to dig him in the ribs in warning.

"This should be interesting," her husband breathed in her ear, his blue eyes dancing in merriment.

"For goodness' sake, _behave_ yourself!" Adela whispered furtively, although the smile he had drawn from her rather took the edge off the admonishment.

* * *

Gilbert surveyed their farmhouse with pride as he seated Anne at their kitchen table; it had never looked better, and though they lived as modestly as most local families he had always thought there was a warmth and charm about their home in particular, and an unfussy elegance to the stylings and furnishings that contrasted favourably to the try-hard ostentation of the Barry or Andrews residences. He could read Anne's own approval in her sweeping grey-eyed gaze and her ready stream of compliments, which promptly extended to the hot luncheon his mother had so painstakingly prepared. He sat, rapt and adoring, as his mother and Anne were soon trading all manner of excited exchanges, including some fulsome back-and-forths regarding their shared favourite literature, with a sideline into their pre-eminent literary heroes that had him grinning and his father laugh-coughing into his napkin.

"Well, ladies, excuse _we_ two," John chortled over his potatoes, "but Gil and I here are only mere mortals, both sons of farmers, and we can't be competing with your Darcys and Wentworths and whatnots over our Sunday roast. It's not exactly aiding our digestion."

Anne blushed prettily at being so caught up in company, but his mother merely shook her head and bestowed a bemused smile.

"See where Gilbert got his audacity from, Anne?"

Anne grinned and then bit her lip, whilst he endured his own round of newly embarrassed coughing.

"Actually, Mrs Blythe, Gilbert once assured me he inherited his _charm_ from his father," Anne gave merry and newly adventurous reply, making Gilbert to her right color at the memory and made his father chuckle amusedly.

"Is that so, Anne?" John Blythe answered, sending a look to his son. "Well, I'm afraid he probably played up both _my_ attributes _and_ his own."

"How did we get onto this subject?" Gilbert rolled his eyes, fighting his blush, and this time it was Anne's turn, it seemed, to stare back at him delightedly.

"Gilbert told us that you are both recipients of scholarships this year, Anne," Adela offered in rescue. "Congratulations! That's really wonderful news, and very impressive."

"Thank you, Mrs Blythe – I feel very fortunate. It will be a tremendous help going into next year." Anne's countenance clouded, and she turned to Gilbert in question. "You have the science scholarship? You didn't tell me that!"

He found himself reddening anew at her enthusiasm, and the pride for him sparking the green in her eyes. "I only picked up the letter as we headed out from Redmond," he murmured to her, inclining his head slightly as if in private aside. "There hasn't been time to tell you."

"Oh, Gilbert! That's marvellous!"

"Well, it's encouraging, but it's small fry compared to _yours,_ Miss Thorburn," he grinned for her.

"Not a word of it! _Well done!_ "

"Thank you, Anne," he stared at her for a too-long moment, and both then turned their flustered attention back to the table, to find both his parents viewing them with knowing curiosity.

Talk moved to safer topics; the Patterson Street visit to the schoolchildren; subjects in their courses for the following year; sights still to be seen within Avonlea; what the Blythes farmed, including more information than one may have necessarily required from Mr Blythe senior on their different varieties of apple, transfigured mouth-wateringly to the wholesome pie they enjoyed for dessert.

"I was actually hoping to show Anne the orchard, and then perhaps some other places," Gilbert ventured as their meal came to an end.

"Yes, by all means," John nodded encouragement, "you two should get out to enjoy the rest of this fine day."

"If you'd double back to us before taking Anne home to the Barrys, though, Gilbert?" Adela added. "I'd like to pack some things for Anne to take with her."

There were few occasions when Adela and John had been thanked so profusely for their hospitality, or with more touching sincerity. They both extracted a promise for her to return to them again before Anne finished her stay in Avonlea, and then watched as their son led their visitor though the back door and out to their orchards beyond, viewing them through the kitchen window with not a little wonder, and noting how their conversation struck up anew to light both their faces as they headed through the gate Adela had paused to watch a young John Blythe at nearly a quarter of a century before.

"Well…" John sighed. "I've half a mind to wish Gil _had_ eloped with her to Summerside."

"Oh, John, of all the things to say!"

"And here I was thinking you _liked_ Miss Anne Shirley!" his eyes twinkled down at her.

"I _do,_ " Adela answered pensively, not taking her own eyes off the young pair as they slipped away from view. "I'm worried to think how much. And I wish that she wasn't _quite_ so perfect for him."

"Well, love, now you've lost me."

"There's such a long road ahead for them, John. They've both only just started their studies. If their feelings were to… develop… well, it will be years yet till Gilbert is in a proper position to marry. The timing would have to be spot on. A married woman can't complete her studies, I should think, and she couldn't even go back to teaching. And what if there was some sort of falling out, or…?"

"Oh, Dela, love," John chuckled, his arms coming reassuringly around her waist, his chin resting in her hair. "Aren't we getting a _little_ ahead of ourselves?"

"Perhaps…" Adela's smile tried to be wry.

"And you know, you weren't _this_ worried about the prospect of losing _me_ back in the day," he grinned.

"Well," she huffed. "That's because you were an infuriatingly closed book back then, John Blythe. I wasn't to know how mad you were for me, until…"

" _Until_ …?" he turned her into him, raising an eager eyebrow.

Adela had never quite been able to articulate the way John's face as he turned to her that long ago day, thinking he had spoken out and lost her, changed something deep within her. That vulnerability and passion, that risk taken, those still waters running deep, so much deeper than she could have ever fathomed.

Gilbert, though, was a very open book – _too_ open, she sometimes feared – whom, the youthful worry over his father aside, had not yet known the sharp stab of risk; the terrible throb of a missed chance; the dull ache of letting go.

"Until… you so comprehensively put your foot in it," she recovered herself, smiling up at him teasingly. "I knew that, for a man of such few words, you must have felt _something,_ to come out with such a speech to me, Mr Blythe." *

"Well, I definitely _did_ feel _something_ ," he pressed slightly closer to her, his mouth quirking and his eyes lighting mischievously. "And you know, Mrs Blythe, I believe you deserve a rest upstairs now, after all your efforts for today."

"John!" Adela recognised the inflection in that deep voice all too well. "We couldn't possibly! There's the dishes… and Gilbert and Anne Shirley…. and…" her protest petered out feebly.

John had already taken her elbow.

"The dishes can most certainly wait. And as for those two youngsters, we'll be lucky if we see them again before dark."

It didn't take very much persuasion for Adela to follow her husband, hand in hand, up the stairs.

* * *

Anne stared up at the modest building, auburn brows knotted in puzzlement.

"The schoolhouse?" she queried, turning to Gilbert beside her in the buggy. " _This_ is our special destination in Avonlea?"

"It is but a stop on our onward journey, Miss Shirley," he leapt from the buggy, securing the reins and giving Bess a carrot for her trouble. He handed down Anne with a flourish, the bemusement as she smiled at him showing very green in her eyes.

"I'm sorry to inform you that Diana _has_ pointed out the schoolhouse already, Gilbert."

"Ah, but does she have access to the secrets inside?" he waggled his eyebrows suggestively. When Anne continued to look doubtful, he placed long, brown fingers between a crevice around the corner from the door, producing a spare key. " _Voila!"_

She laughed at him seeming indeed more schoolboy than former schoolmaster in the moment, and he directed them inside, closing the door firmly.

After the busy main street of the village as they trotted through, the quiet hush of the schoolhouse reminded her of the private train carriage on the way to Summerside; an interlude out of time. And then, as now, she was too-aware of his soft breathing and his feet shuffling and the swish of material as he thrust his hands into his pockets. She looked around with interest, processing the stale air of childhood sweat and many summers, seemed baked into the walls and desks and floorboards, even as the crisp sweetness of the Blythe orchard lingered on his skin as he stood beside her.

"I thought about what you told me yesterday," he offered quietly at her ear. "About how you might have come to Avonlea. About how you might have sat across from me, and whether we might have been friends. So I wanted… just for a few minutes… to give you the chance."

 _That you took your chance, and used it well…_ the old vow, she and Tom's, came to her, unbidden.

"Gilbert…" she turned to him, to see him watching her with careful eyes. "That was a lovely thought. Thank you."

"It's not too strange?" he worried suddenly. "Or too sad?"

"No," she shook her head. "It's good to be able to picture this, at last." She took tentative steps forward, walking slowly along the neat lines of desks, her pale fingers travelling along wooden lids and idly circling empty inkwells, and even tracing a stray slate, abandoned in the rush towards the holiday break. She turned back to him, her smile light.

"And where did young Master Blythe sit?"

He gave her a grin, walking slowly away from her to the farthest row, stooping to sit midway back, not entirely successful in enfolding his long legs under, nor in wedging his torso and shoulders into the available space. He awkwardly positioned himself and sat expectantly, his hands neatly clasped in front of him.

Anne bit her lip to stop her laughter at this incongruous spectacle.

"Not exactly built for football captains."

"Er, no," he squirmed, looking a mite sheepish.

"And where would Anne Shirley have sat, do you think?" she asked tremulously.

His eyes gleamed. "Why, Miss Shirley would have been found in the close company of Miss Diana Barry, I should imagine. Which makes you directly across from me, and one forward. Like in church," he added with a sly smile.

Anne followed these instructions, sitting to mimic his pose, if not his hunched posture.

"Like so?" she called, staring ahead with admirable composure.

"Just so…" he breathed, caught by the image of her before him, red hair burnished by the stray shafts of sunlight, pale neck swan-like and graceful, narrow shoulders and back straightening imperceptibly under his perusal.

Anne turned slowly, leaning, arms folded and pointed chin propped upon them, on the desk behind her, looking back to him.

"And what sort of scholar was young Master Blythe?" there was a trace of coquettishness in her manner now.

Gilbert extracted himself from his prison, standing with relief, rolling the aforementioned shoulders and then leaning against the desk he had vacated.

He paused to contemplate the question, and then gave a smirk. "Obnoxious."

"Surely not!" Anne smiled indulgently, and shook her head to emphasize her disagreement. "I think… Curious. Driven. Determined. Outstanding, obviously. But perhaps also… a little bored?"

He looked wistful. "You have me perfectly pegged."

Anne's own look was gentle, and then she stood in the one easy, fluid motion, hands clasped behind her back, continuing the walk right to the front of the class, and the single step leading to the raised platform of the teacher's sacred domain of desk and blackboard. She perched on the edge of the desk he himself had sat at for two years with a challenging, impertinent air.

"And what of _Mister_ Blythe, Headmaster?"

Gilbert paused, a fleeting look of pain shooting across his face. He shoved hands again into his pockets.

"I'm afraid… _impatient."_

"With your students?" she queried disbelievingly.

"No…" he struggled to articulate the thought. "With _myself._ With _life._ I regret I didn't have your talent or your imagination, Anne, to make lessons inspiring. Remember my _mathematical_ formula for reading poetry? I was only half joking about that. I'm ashamed to say teaching for me was… a means to an end. Just a way for me to earn enough to beat a path to Redmond."

His hazel gaze flickered up to her, trying to gauge her response to these revelations, before continuing.

"Of course, I cared about my students, and did my best to help them succeed… Perhaps if I'd had a colleague like you, who was passionate and eager, I could have been guided by your example, and I could have done better…" he frowned, dark brows drawing together. "I found it enjoyable enough, but I also found it frustrating. I was already behind my peers, age-wise, having been away in Alberta for those years with Dad… and my time teaching was just going to delay things further… I just couldn't wait to get to Redmond and have my life finally start."

He stared at her now, stock still at the desk, her expression indecipherable.

"Sorry, Anne…" he raked his hand through his hair. "Thinking of what you went through to get to college yourself… that was selfish and self indulgent."

"No…" she shook her head slowly. "Just honest. And _human,_ Gilbert. And you are an excellent teacher – I see how you tutor some of your classmates, and you were wonderful with those children from the Patterson Street school. You just needed to feel passionate about something, too. To feel you were in the right place, finally. Everyone wants that."

"And _you,_ Anne? In Avonlea? Are _you_ in the right place, finally?"

He wished his voice hadn't emerged as so strangled and grasping. He wished he didn't ask that question and think of her and Tom.

Anne's smile was a wavering, tremulous thing. He watched it settle itself into a brave upward curl as through an act of will. She hopped off the desk, looking about her with eyes both curious and forlorn, as if now weighing what-could-have-beens in the balance; as if trying to imagine her shadow self here, in the little schoolhouse in the little village, and all the differences in her life that would have implied.

"Who can tell?" she shrugged delicately. "Maybe it's but another stop on _my_ onward journey. But I am loving it here all the same."

* * *

" _Take a walk with me – a ramble back through the woods beyond the marsh. There should be something there I want to show you…"_ ** Gilbert had offered as they drew away from the schoolhouse back into the waiting late afternoon sunshine.

Woods? A marsh? Anne was intrigued but perplexed. _"Should be!"_ she tittered. _"Don't you know if it's still there?"_ **

He had only given a secret smile in reply, hazel eyes alight; frustratingly enigmatic.

Anne settled back into the buggy as they criss-crossed through the village again, trying not to notice the many looks they garnered; the tipped hats of men and the enthusiastic waves from young women and the speculative glances from various matronly ladies milling about outside the General Store. She was used to this reflected attention when in Gilbert's company at Redmond, most especially after the football fundraising dance and then, awfully, those weeks after Summerside, but this was both less personal and, conversely, more confronting. She wondered, for the very first time, how she would have fared being thrust into this small community all those years ago, with her too-red hair and her too-talkative nature and her fanciful imagination and her uneven temper. She was known at the high school in Summerside and she was becoming known at Redmond, but it had been, for the most part, at her own pace and on her own terms. What would have happened to little Anne Shirley here in little Avonlea?

It was useless speculation, now, as it had been that moment in the schoolhouse, and counterproductive to enjoying the glories of the day; the companionable quiet of sitting next to Gilbert, until the excited exclamations burst from her over lake and then laneway, and Gilbert's grin became more pronounced the closer they came to their mysterious destination, until they paused on the edge of a woodland area, three times as large and twice as dense as the little wood behind the Girls Home.

Anne stared ahead of them wonderingly. "That looks a little spooky!" she laughed.

"No ghosts here Anne, I can assure you," his deep voice held the hint of a smile, but his eyes were earnest on hers.

They were soon _sauntering through the shadows_ **of the trees, avoiding the thick roots and overgrown tangles of the forest floor, noting the pungent, earthy smells that wrinkled their noses, laughing when a small, unidentified creature skittered close to her and made her yelp in surprise. Beyond their forest sojourn, the _hills were basking in an amber sunset radiance, under a pale, aerial sky of rose and blue. The woods around the head of the marsh were full of purple vistas, threaded with gossamers. Past a dour plantation of gnarled spruces and a maple-fringed, sun-warm valley they found the 'something' Gilbert was looking for._ **

" _Ah, here it is," he said with satisfaction,_ **and perhaps not a little relief. "Can you guess at it, Anne?"

She stared, contemplating, her hair caught by the setting sun in bronzed blaze _,_ her mint-green dress an echo of the lush new-spring foliage, her grey eyes seeking out what he so desperately wanted her to notice. She saw a tree; a lone sentinel, _all white with blossom, in the very midst of pines and beeches;_ ** proudly incongruous. It was not a cherry tree, that was for certain, but definitely a fruit-bearing variety, and she smiled suddenly, not needing to think on what sort of specimen would have him bring her all the way out here.

"An apple tree?"

"Yes, Anne!" his look was all excited schoolboy, as before, and charmingly appealing. _"A veritable apple-bearing apple tree… a mile away from any orchard. ** I was here one day_ last autumn, before setting off for Redmond, wandering about, and came across it quite by chance. Perhaps, being the son and grandson of an orchardist, in finding it _I was arranging a point with my destiny,"_ *** he slid a careful look to her, to have Anne pause and frown, turning to him briefly, and then back to the object of their scrutiny. "Well, regardless, back then _it was loaded…_ the apples were _good, too – tawny as russets but with a dusky red cheek. Most wild seedlings are green and uninviting."_ **

Anne looked down at her dress in amusement. "Am I to infer something from that remark, Mr Blythe?" she teased.

"Well, you _are_ as beautiful as any dryad, Anne," Gilbert responded seriously, low-voiced and without artifice.

She turned rather red-cheeked herself at his clear admiration, focussing her attention on the tree, patting its trunk and musing on its situation.

"So this is… the apple tree you mentioned. In Summerside," she ventured unevenly, her mind too eager to conjure the memory of their _moonstruck madness_ ** under another unlikely-placed example.

Hands thrust into pockets, he walked to stand beside her. "Yes, Anne… I've thought about it frequently, since, and… I've thought about _you._ "

Newly flustered by his proximity, her tone was more brittle than she intended. "So I'm not a wild rose or some such, but a rogue wild apple tree?"

He placed his own large, brown hand on the trunk, resting it beside her pale one.

"Well, you see…" he swallowed, seeming to choose his words carefully. "I thought of this tree, _sprang years ago from some chance-sewn seed,_ transplanted to an unknown environment, and how… _and how it has grown and flourished and held its own here all alone among aliens,_ as it were… _Brave, determined_ ** and strong. How it had to adapt and fight to survive. How it flowered out of sight for so long, unappreciated and undiscovered. About how… it had to _grow high… it had to reach up to the sunlight._ ** About how… _o Dryad,_ the tree is the same as… as you are."

She had gone shockingly still beside him, and then dropped her hand. He immediately quailed. Had he overstepped the mark? Had he horribly miscalculated? Should he have stuck to the safety of a wildflower, or even that thought he had first meditated upon at Summerside, and that came to him again just now in the gloom of the forest, that _as she walked along, in her light dress, with her slender delicacy, she had made him think of a white iris._ **

Mistrusting himself now, he immediately backed away from his assertions, physically and otherwise, stumbling away from the tree, and from her.

"Well, you know, Anne…" he joked now, miserably. "You said about how I should stay away from metaphors. This probably proves it. I'm sorry, that was ham-fisted and no doubt insulting, though I never meant it that way, I just…"

"Gilbert…" she offered quietly, so quietly, but he was beyond hearing the protest in her voice, and blundered on.

" _I wish to be a better man than I have been, than I am…"_ ***he muttered vaguely, passing a hand through his brown curls distractedly and half turning from her so that he did not note her head snap up, as if in recognition. "But maybe first I need to concentrate on being a better _student._ Or a better judge of what is appropriate, especially when it comes to you. I'm obviously just _Floating on with closed eyes and muffled ears…_ _neither see(ing) the rocks bristling not far off…_ _nor hear(ing) the…_ ah… the _breakers… boil at their base…_ " ***

Anne's eyes were wide and astonished as she turned to him.

"Gilbert… that's… that's from _Jane Eyre,_ " she gulped.

"Yes, I know," he sighed, veiling his gaze from her. "And I've failed in _that,_ too."

" _Failed?_ " Anne echoed faintly.

"I wanted to read it, after Summerside, because it meant something to you. And maybe that… it would give me some more insights, into your thoughts, into your character…" Here he paused, before ploughing on relentlessly, lest she be able to interrupt his scattered observations to call him out as an insensitive clod. "But, you know, it's just so _bleak…_ I'm finding it hard going. First that dreadful aunt, then that Lowood place, and now she's at Thornfield… I've lost the plot of it a bit. I wanted to finish it and include it in the donations for the Patterson Street school, but I just got so busy… so I picked it up again last night, after what you said in the field yesterday… and I don't know, Anne, I'm not really concentrating on it well. Is that Grace Poole a maniac or just a red herring? And…"

"Gilbert…"

"… and then there's Rochester. He's pretty insufferable. I would have drowned him in the bed, for sure. I don't even know if he _likes_ her or if he just likes the sound of his own voice…"

Anne muzzled a flash of a grin, even having to bite down on her lip. "He likes her. At this point he… he's scared just how much. And there are certain… impediments… ahead for them. So he might… try to keep her at arm's length, for a time. But he's drawn back to her, time and again, because…"

"Because…?"

"Because…" she faltered as those hazel eyes, despairing and now questioning, finally swung back to her. "Because they have a… _cord of communion_ ****between them. As if they're… bonded."

He nodded slowly, not daring himself to speak, but his look to her managed to be both dispirited and hopeful.

"Gilbert…" she took a tentative step towards him.

"Anne, I'm sorry about…"

"The metaphor was lovely, Gilbert."

"It was?"

"Yes, and… insightful. And I certainly don't mind being compared to a tree."

She could see him swallowing carefully. "Oh. Well. That's… good."

"And you don't _have_ to like _Jane Eyre,_ you know."

"Well, I don't _dislike_ it…" he finally risked a half-smile.

"It gets better…" she offered, hesitatingly, not really sure what they were actually talking about anymore.

"Good to know…" he answered himself, absently.

They stared at one another for long moments, at the point of some unspoken impasse. They had arrived at this moment before.

"Gilbert…"

"Anne?"

"Would you do something for me?"

His eyes drank her. And there she realised the thing that she most wanted to do, she couldn't for the life of her do, if he was watching her.

"Of course. Anything."

"Would you… close your eyes? For a moment?"

"Do I need to count to ten?" he offered, and then grinned something of his old grin at her exasperation. "I'm sorry, Anne," he then complied without demur.

He felt the hesitation in the air, humming, and then the touch, soft as the brush of butterfly wings, of lips warm and trembling.

"Thank you _for being the first to recognize me._ And to… to… _to_ like _what you saw."_ *****

His eyes snapped open at her breath near his; of her words, whispered as if on the wind.

"I presume that's…?" he asked huskily.

"Yes," she breathed. "You're not up to that part, yet."

"Actually…" his look to her was the very definition of _smoulder,_ and he caught her hand in his before she could step away, "I've skipped ahead a little. And I think I remember that quote differently…"

"You do?" she responded unsteadily.

"Yes. I very much believe that… Jane says… that he _loved_ what he saw."

"Really?" she breathed, averting her eyes to the ground, the fierce blush hot upon her cheeks.

" _Yes_. Really. And the amended quote is true of _me,_ Anne."

She might, any second, back away from the moment again, and they would be right back where they started; this dance in circles; a too-brief waltz with her like that very first one, out in the dark, as the shadows rippled across her luminous face, and he realised he had lost himself to her.

He gave the assertion back to her, now, a hundred-fold.

"Anne… I love you."

Gilbert perhaps thought, once, that the words might have been torn from him, as if from his soul, pained and pleading. Or that they would be blurted in all the pent-up passion of his too-powerful, too-long suppressed feelings for her. Or they might have been tossed to her in desperation to prevent her from parting with him. Or they might have been presented with a flourish, heralded by a flare of trumpets, as if an extravagant gift.

Instead, they hovered gently between them, as humble truth.

Anne stood before him, grey eyes large in her face as she slowly raised it up to his, her lip quivering.

"I … I… love you too, Gil."

His answering smile was gentler and more considered than he might have ever imagined at this moment, though inside him the schoolboy and the schoolmaster wrestled for control; the former might have wanted to let out a great war-woop of victory; the latter, even a short time ago, would have spun her around in his arms. But _Gilbert, who was learning wisdom,_ ** was scholar now, and firstasked the question that was needed.

"Well, then… my darling… before I _love you_ senseless, will you do me the honour of permitting me to court you?"

"Yes!" the answer gushed from her, in a manner that made his heart want to burst from his body, and then, the dread-hesitation. "Oh… but Gilbert… if you could just give me a chance to talk with Tom… first. I…"

"You don't have to explain yourself to me, Anne. Of course, my darling girl. As you wish."

Whether she would speak with Tom to gain blessing or forgiveness, he couldn't say, and it wouldn't be his place to. But he couldn't think of this, now; not when his resolve to be better was being battered by his joy in the very person who had inspired him to be.

" _I knew… you would do me good in some way, at some time;— I saw it in your eyes when I first beheld you."_ *** His throat throbbed at the words, and he reached for her, bypassing her waist to wrap his arm around her completely, drawing her against the synchronised throbbing of his heart, never mind anything else.

Anne's reply was an inarticulate sound that might have been sigh or sob or swoon or all three, which was soon lost to his lips. Four long months of mindful waiting was now given over to a need to remake himself through knowledge of every part of her. His mouth could not kiss her more deeply; his tongue craving to reach every crevice and then a shuddering moan that was felt in his marrow as his tongue met hers. His arms could not crush her to him more thoroughly, feeling her corset push up her breasts against his chest maddeningly. His hands could not roam over spine and waist and hips with more resolution, as if attempting to memorise every contour of her reed-slim silhouette. She met him, kiss for kiss for kiss, lost as he was in the exchange, her answering passion a blaze of wonder to him he never wanted to try to puzzle out. Between snatched breaths he repeated his _I love you_ into hair and cheek and throat, till her hands reached up into his own hair, fingers finding his curls, and he regretfully remembered he might still be trying to be a gentleman, though he'd long abandoned the idea of being a saint.

He wrenched his mouth from hers to kiss her forehead, his eyes startled to see how green hers had grown, and cradled her to him, trying to encourage their hearts and hormones to slow. Their breaths were loud in the sunset stillness, and she clung to him, as if his strength was the only thing holding her upright. He daren't sit her down on the grass to catch her breath or he would need to catch himself, so tempting was it to let his knees give way to gravity and to carry her with him.

After a time he trusted himself enough to pull away to look at her; he would never forget her eyes and the beauty of her blood-red lips or the way they curved up in a smile that was both sylph and siren.

"Oh, Anne, my love…" he attempted, in a tone that didn't even strive to be normal. "We might have to stay away from apple trees for a while. They seem to be our undoing."

She colored anew magnificently, biting her lip and taking a beat to answer, her inflection making the words into quotation.

" _Oh, I longed for thee both with soul and flesh!"_ ******

He laughed in throaty delight. "Good God those are words to live by! I'm going to have to read the rest of that book!" And then, hazel eyes aglow, he placed a brown hand to her cheek. "Any other favourites I should know about?"

She leaned into his hand, turning her head to kiss it, with a tenderness that squeezed his heart.

"Only ours."

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

As previously, the title is taken from _Anne of the Island_ (Ch 23)

*If readers would like to be reminded of my little backstory for John and Adela, please see Ch. 10 _Winds of Hope and Memory._ This also has the snippet about what Gilbert slept with under his pillow (seen in Adela's reference to framed pictures of Catholic saints, which Anne first gives to Gilbert before leaving for Christmas with Phil in Bolingbroke).

** _Anne of the Island_ (Ch 2) All the quoted sections of this chapter have been flipped, for Gilbert to have first discovered the tree in the autumn, and come back to it with Anne, here, in the spring.

***Charlotte Bronte _Jane Eyre_ (Ch 15)

**** _Jane Eyre_ (Ch 23)

***** _Jane Eyre_

****** _Jane Eyre_ (Ch 37)


	25. Chapter 25 A Fortnight of Halcyon Days 4

**Author's Note**

I am VERY glad to get this chapter out to you all! It contains the last of our four linked Avonlea-set chapters but there will be one more before the end of this interlude.

Anne and Gilbert in the last chapter was a culmination of the previous twenty-three chapters, particularly for _these_ versions who did not know one another and had no prior shared history. I was delighted to bring a long-anticipated set of scenes to you and also some precious canon and Bronte quotations. I had always wanted to link any _I Love You_ between them to growth and understanding… and _Jane Eyre._ Thank you one and all for your lovely responses.

I do hope that this chapter does justice to _another_ couple out there!

With thanks to _elizasky_ for her beta read and love to all readers established and new.

MrsVonTrapp x

* * *

 **Chapter Twenty Five**

 **A Fortnight of Halcyon Days**

 **Part Four**

* * *

Fred was embarrassingly overdressed for a noon-day picnic, as he was well aware, but the one saving grace of being perceived as so conservative in nature was that people were unquestioning and unsurprised when you then acted conservatively. It was just Fred being Fred; patently trying too hard to please Diana; or misreading the nature of an invitation; or just bringing forth that not-quite-endearing gormlessness that had made girls smile at him (when indeed they did smile) from Avonlea to Kingsport, with a bemused impatience. He was liked well enough, certainly, in the way of a kindly old dog; faithful, reliable and unprepossessing. But certainly not the type to inspire grand romance, and often not even mere curiosity.

If only they could conceive the unlikely truth of the matter; the beating heart that zigzagged around his chest, ricocheting off his ribcage, threatening to burst out through sinews and skin, to land on the lawn of Orchard Slope's back garden, at the delicately-shod feet of the elder young lady of the house.

Fred tugged at his stiff collar, made stiffer still by his mother's zealous over-laundering in preparation, and stood uncomfortably in his newly-constricting best suit. He frowned down at his shoes, polished to perfection in the pre-dawn after his sleepless night, now already worse for wear, tramping over gravel drive and mossy incline alike. He dared not follow Tom and Anne, joined by Jane and Priscilla, busily trying to shepherd Minnie May, Ralph Andrews, and Davy and Dora Keith around a makeshift and not at all genteel croquet game. Gilbert stood with a drink at a nearby table, eyes never leaving Anne, even as his ear was bent by Charlie on one side and Moody on the other. Ruby meanwhile sat in self-conscious splendour under the trees with Josie and Gertie Pye, giggling over the gossip of two provinces.

Fred, hovering ever closer to the house, swallowed with difficulty and checked his watch yet again.

 _Five minutes._

He caught Gilbert's eye across the lawn and received a muzzled smile and a wink of encouragement. Finally Diana emerged, bearing yet another tray that she began to offer round to those assembled. Fred was almost stricken numb to see her loveliness from this distance; it reminded him too much of years past, loving her from afar. Well, he had loved her up close too, now, and still feared he wasn't worthy to do either.

Gilbert looked back to him again and gave a surreptitious little nod, and then began to make a great fuss over Diana, insisting the happy hostess sit down for a moment and enjoy of her own hospitality.

Fred took his cue and disappeared with characteristic quiet into the house.

* * *

Anne had been following Fred's movements, as promised, with speculative interest for over half an hour now, even as she felt the steadfast sun beat down upon her, competing with both the heat of Gilbert's gaze and the warm presence of a croquet mallet-wielding Tom. When she looked up from a now-seated Diana, resting with some relief, to find Fred suddenly gone, she bit her lip with barely disguised excitement and hastily excused herself to fetch a fresh pitcher of water. She could take a circuitous route to the kitchen past the study, and the mere murmur of male voices would be all the confirmation needed to take to her friend. As she set off she was serenaded by a song bird, its sharp-sweet tune piercingly lovely as it punctuated her passage up the slope.

"Hello there, Miss Shirley," Gilbert materialised, frustratingly, at her elbow. "And where are we off to?"

"Gilbert Blythe," she laughed, "as you well know, I'm fetching some water."

"That's alright. I'll get it," he fell into step beside her.

"I'm quite capable, Gilbert."

"But pitchers are heavy. And the kitchen is a long way. _Especially_ from this direction," he raised a dark brow.

"Then I'll carry it quickly!" she offered, a touch exasperated.

"Well, now, Anne-girl," his voice lowered provocatively. "As we are newly courting, even if it's still of a clandestine nature, I must insist that you leave all the manual labour to me."

Anne's blush at his tone fed the molten look in his eyes, and she was too-readily thrust back to their moments by a rogue apple tree at sunset, a mere two days ago, but already stamped on her soul as one of her indelible memories. But breaking through even this was her plain old name expressed in a very new way.

" _A-Anne-girl?"_

He gave a very Blythe-strength smile, slow and sensuous. "Well, until the proverbial cat is out of the bag, I can hardly go around calling you _darling_ , darling."

She really didn't want to reward his audaciousness with further schoolgirl stuttering, though the reveal of himself as such an ardent suitor, freed by the exchange of those three little words, was unexpectedly mesmeric. She made to swallow, mouth suddenly very dry.

"Gil…" she breathed.

He smiled knowingly at his own name as endearment, but would not be dissuaded.

"Anne… I just think it's best if you don't go into the house yet. And I think you know why… though for the life of me, I can hardly know _how."_

"Gilbert…" she frowned up at him, auburn eyebrows meeting in consternation. "I don't even know if we should be _having_ this conversation. All I can tell you is… she is my _friend._ "

"And _he_ is _my_ friend," he argued stubbornly.

"A girl just likes to be a little prepared…"

"A fellow just likes to be a little surprising…"

"Well, a request was made of me, and I can't go back on it," she tossed her head airily.

"Ditto," he refuted, hands on hips.

After a moment's pause Gilbert took her elbow and led her, with a gentle determination, around the other side of the house, away from prying eyes.

"Is your challenge to me today going to be indicative of our _entire_ courtship, Miss Shirley?" he demanded, though his excited look showing through his smug expression revealed it was not a thought he was at all averse to.

"When has our relationship _ever_ played by the rules, Mr Blythe?" she parried gamely, through her legs were leaden and she leaned back against the boards of the house to better support herself.

" _Touche_ , Anne," he chuckled, and then sighed lustily. "When I'm with you all I want to do is toss that rulebook." His arms came either side of her, and all she could register was the wanting in her for them to roam over her again. They were sheltered from the sun by the overhang of the eaves, and his eyes darkened accordingly, searching her flushed face and responding with a smile. "Especially now."

" _Especially_ now?" she breathed.

" _Peace…"_ he murmured in a velvety voice _,_ eyes straying to her lips. " _I will stop your mouth…"_ *

He made very good on the promise, leaning into her with only his own mouth making tantalising contact with hers. His kiss was irresistibly slow and tender, despite the fever behind it, and disappointingly brief, and his hands disappointingly absent.

"So, Anne-girl," his voice a betraying rasp as he broke away from her, "You don't have to like the name, you know…"

"I don't _dislike_ it," she echoed his own words of the other day with a sly smile, struggling for composure, and his lips took one more liberty, kissing the tip of her nose.

"Well… how about a sample to help you decide? _Beloved. Dearest. Dearest-And-Then-More-Dear_ ** _Darling darlingest._ _My angel…_ "

Her ears thrilled to hear them, though her response was cautionary. "Because _those_ are not going to attract attention _at all,_ Mr Blythe. And meanwhile, what am I to call _you?_ "

"Call me anything you want, my love, and I'll come running. Whistle for me if it comes to that."

"Oh, Gil…" she laughed, throwing her arms around his neck in wanton disregard for their tenuous hold on both propriety and privacy alike.

"I'll call you anything you want, Anne, if only I can call you mine," his response was made into her hair, which he began moving his lips over maddeningly, tracing a path that collided with the pulse behind her ear and then slid down to her white throat.

"Always…" she gave a strangled little breath, gripping his shoulders tightly and arching her neck to better align with his mouth. "And I… I… I rather love _Anne-girl._ Any… embellishment… is welcome on that score. My name alone is so ordinary."

Gilbert stopped his fevered exploration at that, which was probably just as well, and looked to her questioningly.

"You don't like your name?"

"I don't _dis_ like it," she rolled her very-green eyes, "but I've always longed for something more… romantic-sounding."

He gave an indulgent smile, and shook his head.

"Anne… my darling _Anne-girl…_ your name is the most precious word in the world to me."

His lips found hers again, before extracting himself with a tortured grimace, standing back so that they could compose themselves, or at least give the impression of such.

"Sweetheart, _please_ talk to Tom when you can. Or he'll find us in a compromising clinch and rightly run me through."

"I will…" she wavered. "I know… I must." Her expression clouded, and he sought the sunshine in it again.

"I'd just rather you make an honest man of me, Miss Shirley. I have a reputation to uphold." He gave a grin and pushed back broad shoulders.

"Yes… I've heard a little of your… _reputation,_ " she smirked.

"Pardon?" he quailed instantly.

"Diana has told me some _very_ entertaining stories of you all growing up."

"Well, Anne, you can't believe _everything_ you hear…" he protested desperately.

"What was it, now?" she gave an exaggerated look of contemplation. "I think it was _The Great Flirt of Av-"_

He stopped her mouth yet again, most resolutely.

"I think we should be getting back, Miss Shirley," he breathed raggedly. "Though I am most reluctant to do so, but after all I was hoping to give my friend a minute or two, not twenty."

Her eyes widened. "Oh no! I was meant to…"

"Yes…" he smiled infuriatingly. "I _know._ "

" _Gilbert Blythe!_ " she yelped, wishing she could be more indignant.

"Come, love of my love…" he offered his arm, as if the two of them were returning from a pleasant stroll, his mouth upturned drolly, hazel eyes sparking in the sun. As they came back into view of the other guests they were puzzled by no sign of Diana or indeed of Fred, and Tom and Pris besides, and they looked to one another in wrong-footed surprise.

* * *

Josie Pye had often believed her finest schoolhouse moment had been the corralling and enforced first kiss of one Tom Caruthers.

There had been precious little to lust over in those days of rigid boredom and sanctimonious swots like Gilbert Blythe, who was too handsome for his own good or anyone else's, and who had always viewed her obvious interest in him with a smile too smug to be sexy, and a manner that didn't quite care enough to be condescending.

To see him trailing now after that insufferable redhead from Redmond made her gnash her teeth. But, no matter. She wasn't going to wait out years in vain hope, like pathetic Fred Wright appeared to be doing, approaching the little gaggle where Diana had just seated herself as if the hounds of Hell were on his tail and dragging her off to parts unknown. She had been more than a little surprised by Diana's acceptance of his clumsy overtures, these past months, but presumed it was some misguided attempt to get back at her awful mother.

Josie, still only half listening to Ruby and Gertie (and wincing at the blast of some bird warbling near her ear) flicked an annoyed glance at Gilbert and the interloper, who had just disappeared around the side of the main house, and then back to the newly awkward grouping by the lawn. Moody, who had been one of the few not joining the ill-conceived exodus to Kingsport, was now in conversation with Charlie, who was as ever the pompous windbag, now believing his tiresome pronouncements carried the additional weight of the scholar. Homely Jane was playing with the youngsters; Priscilla Grant, garrulous and too tall to be properly pretty, was attempting to engage Tom in some painful exchange.

 _Well… we shall see about THAT._

Josie made her languid approach towards them, enjoying, as always, the cat-and-mouse frisson of her interactions with Mr Caruthers. She had spent ten minutes, years ago, educating him on the art of kissing, and had enjoyed hours since in amused baiting of him, to the point where there was a time when he was almost comical in his attempts to flee her proximity.

Tom was the only one who still held any interest for her, visually if not conversationally, and the bizarre domestic arrangements out at Green Gables were rather compensated for in his looks and malleability. You could lead Tom Caruthers around by the nose and he'd thank you for it later, in the bashful schoolboy manner he'd never quite shaken. There was much about that scenario that held undeniable appeal. As did his widening blue-eyed look of mounting trepidation as she joined them.

"Er… good, ah, afternoon, Miss Pye," Tom stumbled and reddened, earning a surprising flash of sympathy from the girl next to him. "How do you do?"

"Well as ever, Tom," Josie purred.

"Do you know… that is, may I present Miss Grant, f-from – "

"Thank you, Mr Caruthers," Pris rescued, "but Miss Pye and I are _old friends_." There might have been an underscore of irony to the statement. "Nice to see you again, Josie."

"And _you_ , Priscilla," Josie replied coolly.

"Please excuse us, Miss Pye, but Miss Grant and I were just about to make a quick tour of… the orchard."

"The _orchard?_ " Josie smirked.

Pris was quick to swallow her surprise, catching Tom's haunted eye and agreeing gamely.

"That would be lovely, now, Mr Caruthers. Excuse us, won't you, Josie?"

Josie's displeasure was well masked as she watched yet another couple take their leave, but Charlie, Moody and Jane found her reluctant company gave way to some very cutting remarks about nothing in particular, until she snatched some lemonade and stalked back to her companions under the trees.

* * *

"I'm very sorry to have been so presumptuous in walking with you, Miss Grant," Tom began a little miserably, having led them firstly, in his distraction, to the opposite direction to the orchard, so that even the very vocal thrush they could hear seemed to call out its derision.

"Not at all, Mr Caruthers," Priscilla made very light answer. "You forget that I met Miss Pye at Queen's Academy, though Ruby and Jane, so I know something of her… shall we say… _singular_ nature."

This earned a tiny, knowing smile. "I see. And of course, you've met Diana and Fred and Anne in Kingsport."

"Exactly so, Mr Caruthers. And _yourself_ in Carmody."

He flicked a careful glance at her, smiling more widely, though still rather sheepishly. "Yes… I remember the day very well. Though I didn't think _you_ had?" he teased gently.

"Mr Caruthers, I hope you can forgive me my gaffe. How was I expected to note you across a crowded hall at New Year's when I had only seen you two years before on my schoolhouse roof?"

"Indeed, Miss Grant," he allowed a soft chuckle.

"In _overalls,_ mind you, and not a suit the very same as you are wearing today, except _that_ one was blue and not charcoal in color, if I'm not mistaken."

Tom nearly stumbled over a tree root, his eyes agog at her faultless memory.

"You… you are not mistaken, Miss Grant."

She seemed to bite her lip to ward off her amusement, but in the same moment grew more serious. "Well, neither was I mistaken in the quality of your workmanship that day, Mr Caruthers. I rather wish… you had had the chance to come back to see your handiwork, and to receive my thanks properly."

The wistfulness in her voice caught him by surprise, and he colored faintly.

"I actually… _have_ been back, on occasion," he ventured after a moment. "When errands or supplies have taken me to Carmody. I'm sorry I missed you. Perhaps… well… because I never had the gumption to actually go inside."

She considered this carefully, and her fair face fell. "I wish I had known that."

"You weren't to know the last time," his look was chagrined. "It was last September, and you'd already left…"

"For Redmond…" she nodded, and then seemed to sigh. "It appears we have been ships in the night, Mr Caruthers, with all our near misses." Her tone was lilting lament, though the smile that found him still held the hint of some mischief.

"It seems so, Miss Grant."

"Won't you call me Pris? Everybody does."

"Well, thank you. But only if you… would call me Tom."

The admission seemed a forward one, for he still didn't know her overly well, though she had an unfussy directness that reminded him of Marilla and that glint of humour in her tone and eye that was very Anne.

"And you're staying with Miss Andrews on this occasion?" he struggled for a foothold to the conversation.

"Yes…Tom. I believe I have done a great personal _and_ public service in helping her decide on table decorations for her wedding during my visit, lest she be forced to seek opinions on the matter with all Diana's guests today."

He tried not to grin at her meaning. "I thought that, er, young ladies liked to talk of weddings?"

A shadow passed over her face. "Perhaps one needs to be talking of one's _own…"_

"I'm sorry, Miss– er – _Pris_. I didn't mean to offend you."

"You haven't, Tom. Mostly, I have had much of this talk from my mother of late. She is… not in the best of health… and would prefer to have me settled than pursuing an education. It is… rather a very old and worn discussion in our household," she added dryly.

"I am very sorry to hear it. Your… mother, of course, I didn't mean that you should not – "

"No, that's fine, Tom. I understand your point. My mother married very young and believes all women should do likewise. She is only trying to find comfort in what she knows."

Tom flicked her a blue-eyed glance, looking down at her hand in his arm, searching for any appropriate reply.

"I am sure she is very proud of you and your achievements, ah, Pris. A schoolteacher and now a college student." _As Anne was and had been,_ both of them living a life that seemed larger than his own, painted on a wider, ever-changing canvas, whilst his remained steady but… static.

"Well," here Pris's look lightened, "my father's a dear, and he makes up for any… reticence on her part."

"And you are… enjoying your studies?"

"Very much. And, naturally, the new people I've me there. Particularly Anne." She gave a wide, engaging smile, which grew tentative. "I understand you knew her a long time ago?

Tom swallowed with difficulty. He was really going to have to better manage questions about Anne, though their connection was almost old news now.

"Yes… we, er, grew up in the same town in Nova Scotia… for a time."

Her look was unexpectedly probing. "It must have been very hard, to leave everyone behind to come here."

Tom blinked, astonished at her insight. Most people in Avonlea used to talk to him, if ever, about the many advantages he'd had in coming here, and what he had gained, forgetting that he had also lost.

"It was… hard to leave some of the people I knew there. Yes." He frowned, not knowing if she was waiting for more, or that he could even offer it. "I was very lucky to have the Cuthberts," he added, his sincerity throbbing from every pore.

"I am most sorry about the passing of your mother, Tom."

He cleared his throat. "Thank you. That is kind of you. She…"

"Yes?"

He shook his head, finding himself blushing severely. "Miss Grant, I – that is, Pris – it is only that your coloring reminds me of… well, you and Miss Gillis. Not that your coloring reminds me of Miss Gillis, though of course it is very similar, but only that… your coloring…" he swallowed painfully, thinking _your coloring was that of my mother's,_ instead concluding lamely, "Your coloring is… very pretty." He sighed, feeling every halting syllable of his awkwardness.

"Thank you, Tom… I _think,_ " she smiled slowly, blue eyes sparkling with the tease.

They came to where the orchard branched out into fields, and beyond that Barry's Pond, and stopped to shade themselves amongst the apple trees.

"I'm sorry I have led us a rather long way…" Tom frowned. "I am very happy to head back, Miss, ah, Pris. I have taken up too much of your afternoon already."

"I am _very_ happy to linger, Tom, I assure you! And I hardly think Charlie or Mr McPherson were exactly fighting for my company."

Tom turned to her, unexpectedly enjoying her merry, teasing aside, and finding a communion with her crooked smile.

"I am sure you are _definitely_ mistaken there, Miss Grant," he offered generously, earning him a surprising blush that she, incomprehensibly, passed back to him.

"Well, maybe they, as most men, probably just need a little encouragement," she raised an eyebrow, and his blush darkened by degrees, and he could see her suppress a smile at his reaction. He faltered – it was not the baiting that Josie subjected him to, taunting and mean-spirited - but there was something in her open flirtation that he still found a touch disconcerting. Maybe because, astonishingly, it was actually directed at _him._

Miss Priscilla Grant looked away, allowing him to compose himself, but then her eyes were drawn back to his, an unasked question in their clear blue depths, and he was struck by the comparison in her height to Anne; though Anne was tallish herself it was far easier to school his features from her than from the much taller young lady before him, and he felt the uneasy disadvantage of it.

His sandy brows rose above his own pale blue eyes. "You… you wish to ask me something, Miss Grant?"

Her face seemed to steel herself with her resolution.

"I wish to make a comment, Tom… or to tell a story to you. Or both," she responded cryptically, shaking her head in frustration. "I don't know how you will take it. But if I don't seize the opportunity today, I might never have another one, or it might eventually emerge from another quarter, and I'd hate to think that you… that you…" her face became shuttered, and she stepped away from him, to sweep her eyes over the apple trees that fringed the pathway back up the slope.

"Miss Grant… Pris…" Tom urged her. "I wish you'd tell your story, if it means some relief for you. I'd prefer that over worry about _my_ feelings."

She turned back to him. "You say things like that, Tom, and I don't doubt Anne's long attachment to you for a second. Or… yours… for _her_."

"Attachment?" he asked warily, coloring again guiltily. "We… we are friends, certainly, but I…"

"I would not pry into your affairs, Tom. Though everyone sees the… attachment… you have for one another. It's rather lovely. And I believe I… may understand it, a little."

"Oh?" he breathed unevenly.

"I had a childhood friend… who died. We grew up together. I still feel his loss greatly."

He had thought her recount may have gone down a dangerous byway, and then hated himself to find it was one of loss, indeed like his own. "I am very sorry to hear that."

Pris nodded, sadly. "He was not unlike you in temperament, actually. He was kind and…very patient with me. He certainly needed a lot of it."

Tom smiled carefully at this, and they began walking again, back towards the house, companionably side by side, the sun ripening their hair and bringing a flush to their cheeks.

"How old were you?" he asked gently.

"I was ten; he a little older… People think… _adults_ think… that you are too young to hold on to the memory… that the loss won't matter…"

"They're _wrong_ ," he interrupted, with some vehemence. "It is _not_ too young. And it _does_ matter."

Priscilla looked to him, nodding in firm agreement. "His mother was best friends with my own," she continued. "They still visit one another regularly, even after all these years."

Tom nodded thoughtfully.

"Even though the lady… the mother of my friend… she married into one of the founding families of our village, which is Spencervale, you know, she couldn't stand it after her son died, and moved to White Sands. It was bigger, of course, and didn't have any sad memories for her…"

He knew Pris's eyes were on him as he slowed, feeling a pinprick of unease but unable to quite place why.

"White Sands?" he echoed faintly. It was a strange, sad tale for her to be telling him; too intimate for their still-fledgling friendship, and at odds with the carefree spirit of the day.

"Yes…" Priscilla continued. "White Sands. But she didn't want her remaining child, a daughter, growing up alone… so she adopted another child…"

Tom had stilled completely, pausing to place a hand against the nearest tree, widening eyes turned from Miss Grant as she barrelled on, seemingly past the point of no return.

"The lady… my mother's friend… she didn't adopt a boy… that would have been too much, and too difficult. But she adopted a little girl. A beautiful little girl. I…I remember the first time her mother brought her over to us for a visit. And I've always remembered the story, the terrible story, even though I wasn't meant to hear it… of the day they all came over from Hopetown. Of this poor older boy and girl who… well, my mother's friend was very shaken by it all. She didn't know if the authorities would come for her, or if she had done something against the law. So she decided to never speak of it again, and swore my own mother to secrecy. But I remembered the story… and I remembered where he had gone to, the boy… to the pretty-sounding village, and to the farm with the colourful name."

Tom knew his tanned face had drained of all color, and felt himself suddenly exhausted enough to slide down the trunk and crumple to the ground. _No no no… Would he never be free of the past?_ _Would that one day haunt him forever?_

He had averted his eyes from the too-clear, too-searching ones of Priscilla Grant's. He didn't know in the moment if he would prefer to be back with Josie, pawed at like a plaything, than face Pris's pity for him.

Well… possibly not pity. He darted a glance to her, his jaw clenched tight with denial. There was concern in her look, and understanding, and uncertainty about sharing this fractured, fraught tale, and hovering about her, humming on the air, some sort of… _no._ There was nothing else in her look.

He could feel the ready answers tripping up his tongue… _What a story there, Miss Grant… I hope your mother's friend does well now… Shall we get back to the others? I think Diana will be preparing dessert._

She hadn't mentioned any names. She was giving him a chance to ignore it. To get on with his life. To forget what she knew.

"I… I'm sorry. I shouldn't have shared that… story. Excuse me, will you, Tom?" Pris's face was crestfallen as she stopped wringing her hands, and instead gathered her skirts in them as if to flee.

"How long have you known?" Tom croaked.

" _Known?_ " Pris halted abruptly.

His heart thundered in time with his too-quick breaths. _Say it. Don't say it._ "How long have you known that the story… was about _me?_ "

Her pause was torturous.

"I've known it was _you,_ since Carmody…" she offered quietly. "Gilbert introduced you as his friend from Avonlea, but it wasn't until… you told me yourself you lived on a farm there, called Green Gables."

"That… that was nearly three _years_ ago." He ground out.

"Yes. You act surprised…" she tilted her chin, in a manner that was disconcertingly like Anne's. "Are you surprised that I've never told anyone, or that I waited so long to tell _you?_ "

His eyes finally found hers again. "No… of course not… I'm not at all surprised that you would keep it to yourself. Forgive me, please…" He pressed his hand harder against the trunk of the tree, as if he might try to have it absorb him. "And… Anne?"

"Anne told us all some time ago that she was an orphan. I didn't think of any connection to you until you came to Kingsport and I saw you together. Especially, ah, that afternoon tea at Diana's."

He colored furiously, remembering the wonderful, enchanted days he had spent in that old city, but too painfully remembering the cross currents at Diana's, too, and of Gilbert's worryingly pleased look when he and Anne joined them again in the sitting room. He strove instead for a memory that wasn't connected to either.

"Mostly I remember… you praising my figurines…" he gave the ghost of a smile.

"Well, they deserve to be praised," Pris replied staunchly, with something of the spirit he better knew of her. "They're marvellous, Tom. You make them for a wonderful cause but they're… almost too good to give away…" She smiled to herself, as if amused by her next thought, "and it's good for Gilbert to be reminded he is not the _sum_ total of perfection."

Tom's surprised laugh blurted from him before he could scramble to gather it back, and Pris giggled in response, and the tension of the moment delightfully eased.

"You should have gone to school with him," Tom remarked very dryly, almost rolling his eyes.

Pris _did_ roll hers. "I met him at Queen's. That was bad enough."

Tom shook his head, chuckling as Pris smirked, though he enjoyed not the joint slight at Gil so much as the way the laughter lit her face and sparked in her eyes.

Tom shoved his hands into his pockets.

"Tell me then, Pris… how _are_ Mrs Spencer and Lily these days?"

She gave a bright smile. "They do very well. The older girl, Violet, is a little younger than me and at Queen's herself. Lily is nearly thirteen, you know, and a real beauty. She has a look and a way about her that reminds her mother of my friend, which I know comforts her."

Tom was thoughtful. "I'm glad of that. The… the mix up was… I can't even tell you what that day was like. It's taken me a long time to… to be able to bear the memory of it. And it took Anne herself to… to help me to…" his throat closed over the words.

"To not carry the guilt around?" Pris asked carefully, looking like she already suspected the answer.

He blew out a long breath. "Yes…"

"You have nothing to feel guilty for, Tom. I can't know the difficulties you and Anne faced, at the asylum or afterwards. All I know is that Anne is well loved by all of us at Redmond, and she is thriving there." Pris's smile was briliant and proud, and a thing of beauty.

"I know how grateful she is to have friends like yourself, Miss Grant."

"I know how grateful she is to have _you,_ Tom."

Flustered by her words, he indicated a hand and they continued back up the slope.

"Thank you… Pris," Tom managed after a time, "for keeping our story safe. I… I am in your debt."

She shook her head, smilingly earnest in answer. "There _is no debt,_ Tom. Now or ever."

He nodded his gratitude, and as they looked ahead the back garden of Orchard Slope came into view.

"Well…" Priscilla paused, turning to him. "There _could_ be something that I might ask of you…"

His sandy brows rose. "Anything I can."

"It's only… I wondered that… once I am back at Kingsport… if I may write to you?"

"You want… to write to _me_?"

"It's not for myself as it is for my mother…" Pris began to explain rapidly, her cheeks heating. "You see, she is forever asking if… well… I have any letters from anyone, or if I've formed any… _attachments._ Not of course that we are attached at all, naturally! And I would never intimate as such. It's just that most of my friends are already _in_ Kingsport and so I don't get any letters, hardly. Which doesn't matter to me in the slightest, only it is awful to have to keep saying to her that…"

"Miss Grant… it would be an honour to receive any letters from you. And… to write to you in return."

He feared his embarrassment had made the acceptance sound like a solemn vow, but she merely broke into a relieved smile.

"But I have to warn you… " he continued, giving dire warning. "I am no wordsmith. And I struggle for subjects to talk about outside of the weather and crop rotation."

Her smile broke across her face, and the sun lit her hair the color of the fields below them.

"Ah, but you forget, Mr Caruthers; I am the daughter of a farmer from Spencervale. I might have quite a bit to say about those subjects myself!"

* * *

Fred stumbled out of the side doorway to Orchard Slope, blinking in the bright sunlight. The garden was bathed in a lustre of light now; a too-dazzling glare as his eyes struggled to readjust themselves. Perhaps that's what wearing rose-tinted glasses was; to see through a pink haze, rather than a golden sheen. Though he had always preferred to pin his hopes on scripture rather than romantic fantasy; " _For now we see through a glass, darkly_ ; _but then face to face:_ _now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known."_ ***

He had spent his youth often overlooked and forgotten, as if a character in a well-loved novel arrived suddenly, unannounced, to the general bewilderment of those assembled… _Hello there, Fred. I didn't see you. Have you really been there all this time?_ Gilbert had cast a rather long shadow in which to lose oneself, and sometimes he had preferred the cool concealment offered when trailing in his wake. But at other times, Fred had longed for the flicker of a flame illuminating him, even for a moment; to step out of the darkness. To be seen.

Of all the people he had most wanted to see him, he still couldn't quite believe that Diana Barry had been the one to peer through the dark, distorted glass; to see him as he truly was, and to _know_ him. Not the red-faced, stammering schoolboy of yore, or even the underwhelming young man of average attributes and modest means, but a man as any other man, with hopes and dreams and desires; of care and commitment and curiosity and, perhaps, a little courage.

And he saw Diana now, too, and _knew_ her; the loveliest bloom in the most splendid garden, but not a hot-house flower, to be trapped under glass; rather a wild rose standing tall, perfumed and proud, able to withstand sun and rain and wind, and be all the stronger and lovelier for it.

… _but then shall I know even as also I am known._

He blinked again, and saw her, resting with her back to him, watching the youngsters and chatting to Jane, Priscilla and Tom. Ruby and the Pyes were still seated under the trees; Gilbert and Anne were, somewhat suspiciously, nowhere to be seen.

But really, he had eyes for only one person, and always had done.

… _but then, face to face…_

It wasn't going to be today; he was going to gain his permission, if it be so, and then he was going to plan, to rehearse, to pace up and down till his heart and his feet wore out, and then he was going to come back and do all this again. But his pocket held both letter and small velvet box, and his heart held _her._ Momentum and motivation carried him forward towards her, and he might need a miracle, too, but that part, at least, would be out of his hands.

* * *

Diana sat, enjoying the momentary respite from worry over the fate of her mille-feuilles and whether they had enough lemonade to last the warm afternoon. She watched out of the corner of her eye as Gilbert chased after Anne with a small, knowing smile; her house guest had come home awfully late from her afternoon with the Blythes, and wouldn't be overly drawn on how the day had transpired, but her starry-eyed look had given more away than an hour of salacious shared confidences, and her distraction yesterday during their picnic preparations had forced Diana to beg of her to stay away from anything needing to be weighed, measured or chopped.

Diana noticed Tom's eyes follow the two figures scurry back up the slope, before being thankfully drawn into conversation with Pris, and wondered about _that,_ too, but her musings were cut short by a shadow falling across her, and then the sun flared again as it moved, and there was Fred, smiling determinedly and offering his hand and a walk together around the garden.

Her heart fluttered and then steadied; Anne would have let her know of any clandestine conversations afoot, and so she was able to accept eagerly and without undue concern for his firm stride or the sheen of perspiration on his brow.

They came to _their_ walk, as she now thought of it; the pathway where the edge of the manicured garden gave way to the wildness of the field beyond, as it dipped towards the pond, now a rippling mirror for the promising blue of the sky. They had first walked this path in winter, boots crunching in the snow, their breaths clouding the cold air, and he had commented on the beauty of the snowy landscape, and then of the snowflakes, as crystals, caught in her hair. He had turned and looked to her, and she read his look as if for the first time, and as he settled her on the bench just now, in the merciful shade of a generous old beech, he gave that look to her again, and her astonished heart recognised it for what it was.

Fred did not sit; he took a step back, and then another.

"Diana…" he began.

 _Oh my goodness._

"Diana…" he attempted again, and after her dark eyes widened to saucers over the imminent and unmistakable proceeding – _where on earth had Anne been after all?_ \- she wanted to, immediately, spare him the certain agony of the declaration, even as she longed to hear the words, and it was important for him to be able to say them.

She found herself both belonging to the moment and outside of it; her girlish self having imagined this scenario so very many times, with varying suitors of unvarying charm and good looks… _You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you…_ **** Her youthful, romantic heart had once spent a summer thrilling to the sentiment, looking about hopefully for anyone in Avonlea or surrounds who might be secretly struggling with the violence of his affections towards her.

Later, her dream-suitors became more nuanced; _He had more than the ordinary triumph of accepted love to swell his heart, and raise his spirits… and elevated at once to that security with another, which he must have thought of almost with despair, as soon as he had learnt to consider it with desire…_ ***** And even not without their faults, sometimes cold and stern, but never unfeeling, and learning as much of themselves as of the lady they loved; _I wanted to see the place where Margaret grew to what she is, even at the worst time of all, when I had no hope of ever calling her mine…_ ******

But mostly, she found herself vacillating between the bounding enthusiasm of the boy next door and the quiet resignation of the mannerly, gentle professor; _Ah! Thou gifest me such hope and courage, and I haf nothing to gif back but a full heart and these empty hands…_ *******

She broke from her reverie, and looked properly up at Fred, whose own large hands, having done little but hold a pen these past months, were newly work roughed, as a son born of a farm called back to it. Those hands, having first reached for hers hesitantly, having supported her so securely, and having grasped her, in wonderful moments of abandon, so fervently, now shook as they unfurled a much-folded letter, and began to read from it, apologising profusely for the affront.

" _Diana…"_ Fred began for the third time,

" ' _I've loved you as long as I can remember…' " ********_ His deep voice wavered with emotion, and he swallowed several times. "There is not a time in my life of any importance that does not belong to you. You are part of every memory I have, and every memory I hope to have. I can think of nothing more wonderful than to _come hand in hand all the way through life,_ _with no memories behind_ us _but those which belong to_ us together _."_ *********

He paused and looked to her, with an unbridled longing that made him lose his place, and to have to search for it again with a moment's panic furrowing his brow.

" ' _Maybe I'm not good enough for you now, but_ I _will be someday…' "_ ******** he proclaimed carefully. "There are many others who could give you all that you could desire, and without the wait and the work that we would face ourselves. But I promise you every minute of every day will be spent by me, trying my best to make you happy, and building a comfortable home for us, and loving and caring for any children that may bless us, and loving and caring for _you…_

…Whatever your answer may be, Diana, know that you are forever in my heart, and these months with you have been the happiest of my life, and I will never, ever forget that you looked at me and saw me not only for who I was, but who I could be."

He took a great, shuddering breath, and explained shyly, "there is a poem, too, but I… I thought… I wanted you to have _my_ words to remember, such as they are."

In an instant all those literary heroes of her yesterdays retreated, fast fading into deserved obscurity, their imaginary throes of passion dull against the clear, bright resolution of his steady, steadfast love. If Fred had claimed she was the first to truly see him and to know him, then the same was equally true for her. _Perhaps, after all, romance did not come into one's life with pomp and blare, like a gay knight riding down; perhaps it crept to one's side like an old friend through quiet ways…_ *********

Perhaps it did as Fred did now, kneeling with a reverence reserved for royalty in his best suit, taking her hand with a courtly gentleness and gentility, and asking a very simple question, and in doing so laying his heart down. She had said to Anne, in her pride over his letter to her father, that she would know if they were _made and meant for each other_ by the very act of his asking, but she realised her terrible hubris now, and was a little ashamed. All of Avonlea might think what a great catch Fred Wright had made in her, with the advantage all on his side, but she would know the truth of it; that _she_ was the fortunate one, to gain the love and admiration of a man so gentle and kind and good, him declaring how he would work hard to deserve her, when the onus instead was her own.

These revelations were too much for the moment, which did not require a gush of great thoughts, but they remained locked-fast, safe in her own heart now, for the time when she might reveal them. Instead she tried not to be distracted by the slight frown of his troubled brow, which she wished to smooth with her hands; or the red wash of feeling sweeping his skin, which she wished to calm and to cool; or the tremulous way he asked his question, which she attempted to assuage with her resolute answer. Diana gave it unhesitatingly, with a breathless rush of joy that continued into their kiss, bending down and nearly bowling him over, as his relieved, delighted laugh grew and bubbled between them.

* * *

"Shall we go back?" Fred asked, voice husky in contemplation of her beautiful face, made rosy and glowing as they sat nestled on the rusted wrought-iron bench ten minutes later, still in awe of the moment and of the small, perfect diamond, _glimmering through the trees_ ********* in multi-faceted promise.

"Soon…" Diana sighed, leaning on his shoulder, wanting to prolong this time that would ever be theirs; the first of those shared memories in an album uniquely of their making. "But I would rather like hearing the poem again. Perhaps… with actions, as before?" She looked up to him with all the _love whose heart is innocent_ ********** but her delighted, teasing smile was knowing.

He reddened at her meaning, though he pronounced himself most happy to oblige, skipping over the first poem he claimed ever to have managed to memorise, lingering on some particular lines that most leant themselves to physical embellishment…

 _She walks in beauty, like the night_

 _Of cloudless climes and starry skies;_

 _And all that's best of dark and bright_

 _Meet in her aspect and her eyes:_

 _Thus mellowed to that tender light_

 _Which heaven to gaudy day denies._

Fred paused to kiss brow and temple and eye, brushing over the satin skin of the woman he still could not quite believe belonged to him.

 _One shade the more, one ray the less,_

 _Had half impaired the nameless grace_

 _Which waves in every raven tress,_

 _Or softly lightens o'er her face;_

 _Where thoughts serenely sweet express,_

 _How pure, how dear their dwelling-place…_ **********

His lips lingered on each beloved feature he came to name, with increasing attention to detail, and an unscheduled diversion from _raven tress_ to white throat until such time as the final stanza had to be abandoned completely to the wordless wonder of their new-discovered connection, and the _I love yous_ so thrillingly exchanged, and the easy, surprising passion offered and answered.

They ambled back hand in hand, beginning their life together as they meant to go on. _The garden was a pool of late golden sunshine, with butterflies hovering and bees booming,_ though their smiles threatened to outdo the elements, and the greeting awaiting them once they made their way up the slope was a _joyful noise_ that echoed all the way back to the bench and the beech that had been the happy scene of their vow. *********

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

As previously, the title is taken from _Anne of the Island_ (Ch 23). I promise you the next chapter will be a brand new title!

*William Shakespeare _Much Ado About Nothing_ (Act 5 Sc 4). Have no fear; these two are also absolutely _too wise to woo peaceably_ x

** _Anne of Windy Poplars_ (Ch 12)

*** 1 _Corinthians_ 13:12

**** Darcy in Jane Austen's _Pride and Prejudice_ (1813) (Ch 34) Not that you need me to tell you.

*****regarding Edward Ferrars in Jane Austen's _Sense and Sensibility_ (1811)(Ch 49)

******John Thornton in Elizabeth Gaskell's _North and South_ (1855) (Ch 52)

*******Professor Bhaer in Louisa May Alcott's _Little Women_ (1868/69) (Ch 46). Not that you need me to tell you that, either.

 _And now a little note…_

 _The following quotations are taken, in loving homage and somewhat cheeky plundering, from Gilbert's own first (failed) proposal, in the Sullivan series' 'Anne of Green Gables: The Sequel' ('Anne of Avonlea' in North America) and additionally his words to Anne regarding that wedding at the Stone House in LMM's 'Anne of Avonlea'._

 _Firstly, to Sullivan series Gilbert. My love for Jonathan Crombie and his portrayal of Gilbert is well known on this site. No one can not be moved by his depiction of that first proposal, and his breaking 'Please say yes'. It ends much more happily for Fred here, but I have tried to establish that, in my Anne never growing up in Avonlea, there was another boy who longed for a girl faithfully and over a long period of time (er...apart from Tom!) So I give Fred a little of Gilbert, here, alongside that poem x_

 _Secondly, in my universe there is no 'Anne of Avonlea' - those years unfold quite differently - and hence (sorry!) no wedding of Lavenders and Irvings for Gilbert to comment on in not-so-vague allusion to his own circumstances, so again I give myself leave to give these lines to Fred, and some of the descriptions of that wedding to THEIR circumstances, as I believe it best suits he and Diana after all. And thus Diana, too, is given one of Anne's more important realisations from this chapter x_

******** _Anne of Green Gables; The Sequel_ (Kevin Sullivan, 1987)

*********all quotations from _Anne of Avonlea_ (Ch 30)

**********Byron _'She Walks in Beauty'_


	26. Chapter 26 Hidden Dreams, Blighted Hopes

**Chapter Twenty Six**

 **Hidden Dreams and Blighted Hopes**

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 _Hello! Anybody home?!_

Remember when I used to write _this_ story?!

Well, five or so months later, we finally have an update! I'm sorry it took so long, and I'm sorry that I have also been keeping time with other Annes and Gilberts (or their modern equivalents) instead. This story remains close to my heart and I do want to see it through. It is at exactly the halfway point now, narratively speaking, though I hope to close it out in about 40 chapters in all (meaning about 14 to go…) It will still follow the timeline and general outline of _Anne of the Island._

Thank you to all who have read, reviewed, followed, favourited and otherwise shown love and support for this story. I haven't forgotten your faith and kindness.

With love,

MrsVonTrapp x

* * *

Anne and Diana lay side by side, hands clasped under the covers of the latter's bedroom at Orchard Slope, talking long into the night.

It had been a most extraordinary day, and every delicious moment dripped again from Diana's tongue as she recounted the events by a wrought-iron bench that sunny, sensuous afternoon. Anne listened, appropriately impressed and occasionally agog, by the tender devotion declared by a clearly adoring Fred Wright. Love and proposals and poetry, no less! Even her own romantic, fanciful musings could not find fault with such faithful endeavours, and Diana wore her enchantment over her newly-engaged state so beautifully.

Ever the considerate friend, Diana had not forgotten Anne and Gilbert in all this betrothal business, and before long had winkled out of a blushing Anne the entire (if edited) story, Anne glancing over the finer details of swooning exchanges beneath apple trees in deference to Diana's own news, and certainly not giving away any of that very afternoon's passionate parley hidden behind the side of her very own house.

"Courting Gilbert, now, Miss Anne! I'm so delighted for you, but I'm surprised he's been able to keep _that_ news to himself so far!" Anne felt Diana's indulgent smile through the darkness.

"I think that Gil would shout the news of it, but I asked him to please… wait."

"Wait?"

"It's just that I first wanted to be able to tell – "

"Oh, Tom! Oh Anne, of course! Yes, you must tread carefully, there."

"You… you think there's reason to?" Anne felt her cheeks redden.

"Oh, Anne, surely you have felt Tom's affection for you?"

"Yes, of course…" she fumbled. "He… he and I… it's difficult to define, what's between us. But I didn't know to what extent… that is, I felt it wrong to presume after all this time that…"

"Well, darling, I would presume away. Because you've won Gilbert's heart, but you might be about to break Tom's."

"Oh, Diana! Don't _say_ that!" Anne begged mournfully.

"Anne, I'm only telling you what I have seen for myself. And when I gave Tom your letter last New Year's I don't know if I have witnessed a person have quite that… _reaction_ … to hearing from an old friend."

"Well, it's very… complicated." Anne remarked miserably.

"I know, darling."

Anne bit her lip in new worry, unsure what to do with this information, only remembering how the writing of that very letter had wrung her heart dry. In the very secret place she tucked her love for Tom away, she tried to imagine her reaction to news of _him_ courting anyone if their situations were reversed, failing in that endeavour rather spectacularly.

"Well, Anne, don't fret over it," Diana placated. "Just be honest with him. I've known Tom almost as long as you have, and if there's one thing anyone can say about him, he's extraordinarily decent, and wouldn't want to stand in the way of your happiness."

Anne's throat tightened, knowing the truth of it, but bereft to think _her_ happiness had to come in any way at the price of _his._

Diana took her silence for assent, and leapt forward in her conjecture.

"And at any rate, perhaps his heart will recover faster than you think…"

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Only that you and Gilbert weren't the _only_ ones off to parts unknown today whilst I was with Fred," came sly remark.

Anne blinked rapidly. "He was just with Pris, Diana. He met her in Carmody years ago, I gather, when she was teaching there."

"Mmm…" Diana murmured speculatively.

"And then he saw her again at your own afternoon tea in Kingsport, when he came to visit."

" _Mmm…"_

" _Diana Barry!_ What are you trying to say?"

"I'm _only telling you what I have seen for myself_ ," she chortled.

"I hear this is typical behaviour of engaged ladies, Di," Anne huffed. "To want to matchmake the rest of us in your stead!"

Diana gave a delighted giggle, but neither confirmed nor denied the accusation.

Before long, Anne heard Diana's steady breathing beside her, but despite her best efforts, sleep eluded her for a good while thereafter.

* * *

The newest betrothed young lady of Avonlea found herself in much demand the following days, required to do the rounds of the vicinity, offering up herself and her little diamond ring alike to everyone in the local Ladies Aid and her mother's sewing circle, though rather luckily those two groups largely intersected. It had fortunately not taken Mrs Barry long to change her mind on the suit of Fred Wright, once her own husband had appraised her of the Wright's much-recovered finances, and she saw for herself the tantalising leap in status conferred to the Mother of the Bride. By midday of the Thursday, however, Diana was in danger of tearing out her lovely raven tresses; the very ones her new fiancé had so admired and poetically exalted over. She begged of Anne, who had stayed in the previous day to catch up on overdue correspondence to Katherine Brooke and Philippa Gordon, to rescue her with any urgent errand that would take them out of the house, fictional or otherwise.

"Do you think…" Anne suggested hopefully, "we might go on a picnic? Just we girls, we Kingsport girls that is. Nothing very formal, not like your lovely gathering here on Tuesday, just…"

"That's perfect!" Diana brightened. "Oh, you're a genius, Anne! I can send Father's groom over with a note to Jane's, and call on she and Priscilla to collect them within the hour. I know that Ruby was going into Carmody today with Josie, so though we'll miss her, it saves us the torture of having to invite the Pyes." She clapped her hands together as her excitement took hold. "And I have the perfect destination in mind for us, too! You'll love it, Anne! But are you sure you don't want to invite Gilbert?"

Anne still fought to compose herself whenever their names were linked in public, even if at this stage only by Diana. "He promised his father a day or so to help around the farm. At any rate, I'm invited over there again tomorrow," she offered blushingly.

Diana's smile was beatific. "As _I_ am to Fred's. But I fancy _you'll_ have a better time of it than I will! The Blythes are dears, you know."

"I know," Anne grinned in remembered delight.

"Gilbert could have been my brother, I must tell you," Diana mused, dark eyes sparkling.

"Beg your _pardon?_ "

Diana waved her much admired, diamond-encrusted left hand airily, though her smile was mischievous. "It's a rather long story. I'll save it for the picnic!"

* * *

It _proved an ideal day for a picnic. . .a day of breeze and blue, warm, sunny, with a little rollicking wind blowing across meadow and orchard. Over every sunlit upland and field was a delicate, flower-starred green._ *

A man, _harrowing at the back of his farm and feeling some of the spring witch-work even in his sober, middle-aged blood, saw four_ figures _, basket laden, tripping across the end of his field where it joined a fringing woodland of birch and fir. Their blithe voices and laughter echoed down to him._

Anne was enraptured by the beauty surrounding her, feeling that she was coming to know this place and understanding the affection Gilbert had for it and the love Tom had developed for these idyllic, Eden-esque surrounds. She had grown up in circumstances and situations where natural beauty needed to be sought out and clasped to one tightly; the poor, spindly tree outside the orphanage; the small woods at the back of the Girls Home; the pleasant, sunny alcove where she would take her lunch at the school in Summerside; the oak trees in the quad at Redmond. But to have such lush beauty swamping her… wave after wave of it… it was more than she thought she could bear.

The others looked upon her fondly as she began gathering wildflowers during their passage – the flowers were everywhere; bursting profusions from every nook and cranny; a riotous kaleidoscope of color. They passed by a patch of violets, some of which Anne plucked, gathering them to her delightedly.

"These are our first gift, today!" she grinned. _"When I'm eighty years old… if I ever am… I shall shut my eyes and see these violets."_

 _"If a kiss could be seen I think it would look like a violet," said Priscilla,_ a little dreamily.

 _Anne glowed._ "That's a lovely thought, Pris!"

"Do Mr Inglis's kisses make you see violets?" Diana asked Jane soberly, with a sly innocence.

"I don't know…" Jane's expression was very droll. "Do Fred's?"

Diana held out momentarily, before bursting into laughter, and the two old friends, now supposedly mature engaged ladies, collapsed into prolonged giggles, clutching one another, much to Anne and Pris's amusement, and not a little chagrin.

They took a winding narrow path, walking single file as _fir bows brushed their faces,_ and came to _a shallow woodland pool in the center of a little open glade. Later on in the season it would be dried up and its place filled with a rank growth of ferns; but now it was a glimmering placid sheet, round as a saucer and clear as crystal. A ring of slender young birches encircled it and little ferns fringed its margin._

"Oh, it's beautiful!" Anne cried, quite overcome and dropping her basket. "It makes you want to dance, to see it!"

"I think my _wood-nymph_ days are behind me, Anne!" Diana grinned. "But _you_ still have the look for it."

"The ground's a little _boggy_ ," Jane determined, eying the patch of grass dubiously.

"What's this place called, Diana?" Anne still wore rapturous expression, staring out to the little lake.

"Ah… I don't think it's named at all."

"What a shame! And it gives such scope for the imagination, too!"

"Now _that_ is a real Anne-type expression," Priscilla grinned. "What would _you_ call it, then?"

"You know…" Anne's auburn brows furrowed, "I don't think I've had naming rights to anything in my life."

Diana and Jane's expressions softened at this, and Pris, with a look to her Anne couldn't quite decipher, threaded her arm through hers, and squeezed reassuringly for good measure. "Well, you have, now."

Anne fumbled around for the perfect name. Once she might have conjured an epithet of druids and fairies, of mystic and magic, but those days were long gone, if they had ever properly existed for her at all.

" _Glimmer-glass_ ," Anne finally murmured.

"Oh, gosh!" Pris answered wide-eyed. "That's _exactly_ what I had been thinking!"

Anne grinned at Pris and accepted the admiring praise of the others, before they continued on, the lake glimmering in farewell to them as of its new moniker as they passed it.

They pushed on, _through the undergrowth beyond_ to a lane through the woods, _skirting_ what she was told was a _Mr Silas Sloane's back pasture –_ Anne smiled and wondered at the connection to Charlie – and came to _an archway of wild cherry trees all in bloom._ They _swung their hats on their arms and wreathed their hair with the creamy, fluffy blossoms,_ giggling like girls all the while. _Then the lane turned at right angles and plunged into a spruce wood so thick and dark that they walked in a gloom as of twilight, with not a glimpse of sky or sunlight to be seen._

 _Past the spruces the lane dipped down into a sunny little open where a log bridge spanned a brook; and then came the glory of a sunlit beechwood where the air was like transparent golden wine… and then more wild cherries, and a little valley of lissome firs, and then a hill so steep_ they _lost their breath climbing it; but when they reached the top and came out into the open the prettiest surprise of all awaited them._

Beyond, apparently, _were the back fields of the farms that ran out to the upper Carmody road. Just before them, hemmed in by beeches and firs but open to the south, was a little corner and in it a garden . . .or what had once been a garden. A tumbledown stone dyke, overgrown with mosses and grass, surrounded it. Along the eastern side ran a row of garden cherry trees, white as a snowdrift. There were traces of old paths still and a double line of rosebushes through the middle; but all the rest of the space was a sheet of yellow and white narcissi, in their airiest, most lavish, wind-swayed bloom above the lush green grasses._

 _"Oh, how perfectly lovely!" three of the girls cried. Anne only gazed in eloquent silence._

 _"How in the world does it happen that there ever was a garden back here?" said Priscilla in amazement._

 _"It has to be Hester Gray's garden," said Diana. "_ Thank goodness we've found it – Mother was rather vague with directions,though we've had a good walk out of it _. I've heard_ her _speak of it but I never saw it before, and I wouldn't have_ really _supposed that it could be in existence still."_ She turned to Anne, still dumbstruck beside her, "we are distantly related to them, you see."

"Who _was_ she?" Anne breathed, to Pris and Jane's encouragement.

 _"Oh, you've seen it in the graveyard,_ Jane, _"_ Diana indicated to their friend _. "She is buried down there in the poplar corner. You know the little brown stone with the opening gates carved on it and `Sacred to the memory of Hester Gray, aged twenty-two.' Jordan Gray is buried right beside her but there's no stone to him… To be sure, it happened thirty years ago and everybody has forgotten."_ Diana shrugged sadly at Anne.

"Well, _we_ mustn't forget _!"_ Anne determined, her heart thumping queerly. She was uneasy to think that Hester had lived and died only a generation ago, as her own mother, bequeathing this beautiful place, and no one marked her now. "Do you know the full story, Diana?"

Diana did indeed, and they set out their picnic provisions, carried the length and breadth of Avonlea, and settled in for the sad tale amongst the wildflowers.

Anne was quietly captivated, wondering if her own fate had been different would she too, like Hester, now be working in a shop or worse, hating it and wishing for escape, rescue by a handsome stranger optional. To be taken _away to some quiet spot where she'd see nothing but fields and trees._ Anne loved the idea of a soul sister who _wasn't much of a housekeeper but (who) had a knack with flowers._ She looked around and could imagine herself here, living humbly and quietly, writing by the window of the house in the good light, rich in love with an adoring husband. She could understand how the garden called little Hester Gray, and in the end her soul was given back to it, closing her eyes for a final time surrounded by all this loveliness and covered in roses.

 _"Oh, what a dear story," sighed Anne, wiping away her tears._

 _"What became of Jordan?" asked Priscilla._

 _"He sold the farm after Hester died and went back to Boston. Mr. Jabez Sloane bought the farm and hauled the little house out to the road. Jordan died about ten years after and he was brought home and buried beside Hester."_

 _"I can't understand how she could have wanted to live back here, away from everything," said Jane,_ who had spent some time during their walk regaling them with the delights of up-and-coming Winnipeg, and how she was planning to newly outfit Harry's grand house in town.

"I can," Anne admitted in tremulous, thoughtful voice. " _She was tired to death of the noise of the big city and the crowds of people always coming and going and caring nothing for her. She just wanted to escape from it all to some still, green, friendly place where she could rest."_

There was a purposeful pause, and all three girls looked to Anne, who was lost to memories of such a time spent amongst the grime and the crime and the cacophony; of the boy who had been saved from the streets of Hopetown to come to this place of idyll where one might live like a king. She had never been so glad of the mistake made regarding the Cuthberts in her life; and even if she herself had gone from one city to another instead, from Summerside to Kingsport, she had still journeyed far from Hopetown and the lack of hope that lived there.

 _"_ Hester _set out those cherry trees over there," said Diana,_ eager to fill the new silence. _"She told mother she'd never live to eat their fruit, but she wanted to think that something she had planted would go on living and helping to make the world beautiful after she was dead."_ Looking back to Anne, Diana suddenly quailed. "Oh, Anne, I'm sorry to prattle on about death so. It's terribly insensitive of me. I hope you don't think it was too sad to come."

"Not at all, Diana. I'm so glad you brought us," Anne reassured, _shining-eyed._ "I'll never forget coming here."

They _left their baskets in Hester's garden and spent the rest of the afternoon rambling in the woods and fields surrounding it, discovering many pretty nooks and lanes. They_ stopped for last refreshments in the _prettiest spot of all ... on the steep bank of a gurgling brook where white birches shot up out of long feathery grasses._

"Doesn't it all look like a poem?" Anne offered with heavy, satisfied sigh.

 _"I should rather call it a picture," said Jane_ with a bemused laugh _. "A poem is lines and verses."_

 _"_ Don't you think the _lines and verses are only the outward garments of the poem? The real poem is the soul within them . . .and_ this _beautiful_ vista _is the soul of an unwritten poem. It is not every day one sees a soul… even of a poem."_ Anne smiled to herself, thinking of Gilbert and his _poetical equation_ during his teaching days here.

 _"I wonder what a soul. . .a person's soul. . .would look like," said Priscilla dreamily._

Anne turned to her, grey eyes starry. " _I_ used _to fancy souls as being made of light._ A delicate light colored differently for each person… _some are all shot through with rosy stains and quivers. . .and some have a soft glitter like moonlight on the sea. . .and some are pale and transparent like mist at dawn."_

 _"I read somewhere once that souls were like flowers," said Priscilla,_ smiling generously, "though my own mother would claim that makes most people weeds!"

 _"Then your soul is a golden narcissus," said Anne,_ in a moment of inspiration. _"And Diana's is like a red, red rose. Jane's is an apple blossom…"_

 _"And your own is a white violet, with purple streaks in its heart," finished Priscilla._

Anne grinned, rather liking that. "And Phil's is a mayflower, pretty and dainty and proudly Nova Scotian…"

"…and not certain if it wants to be pink or white," Pris added drolly.

Inevitably, regretfully, home and responsibilities called them, and they packed away their provisions, setting off _by the light of a calm golden sunset, their baskets filled with narcissus blossoms from Hester's garden._ Anne wondered quietly to herself whether she could carry some to the cemetery, if she could find it, -perhaps on the way to Gilbert's tomorrow - and to lay them at the little brown marker Diana had mentioned.

 _"Well, we have had a lovely time after all,"_ claimed Diana, as if she was secretly relieved at this happy outcome.

 _"It has been a truly golden day," said Priscilla._

 _"I'm really awfully fond of the woods myself," said Jane,_ belatedly.

 _Anne said nothing_ except to nod eagerly, her throat suddenly thick _. She was looking afar into the western sky and thinking of little Hester Gray._

* * *

Adela Blythe watched with a fondness that informed her smile as Gilbert trod an impatient path from the kitchen window all the way out to the verandah, to scan the road before returning through the hallway to contemplate the back fields. There was much of the boy in the man today, particularly the incarnation that had returned to her from Alberta; all jangling nerves and excitable energy. Gilbert had arrived back from his day with Anne and seeing her back to Orchard Slope so thrilled with himself and the universe he had been in danger of breaking out into song, but fortunately settled for an enveloping hug for his mother and a very Blythe grin directed at his father. The happy news of his courting Miss Anne Shirley gushed from him as from a geyser; only matched in his pleasure in sharing the engagement of Fred and Diana only days later.

"Gilbert, really, love! You'll wear a hole right through the floor! Why don't you sit with your father and have some tea?"

Adela indicated the very nonplussed example of Blythe senior, relaxing in a rare moment of leisure and perusing the paper whilst they awaited their visitor.

"Sorry, Ma, but I can't sit. I haven't seen her for two days!" Gilbert defended, thankfully turning to resume his pacing before marking the eyeroll he received from his father.

"Try _three years,"_ John gave muttered aside, shaking his head and noting his wife's gentle hand on his arm. "The girl's only decided to walk to us from the Barry's, son," he resumed slightly louder, for Gilbert's benefit, "not circle the globe. She'll get here when she gets here."

"I offered to pick her up in the buggy. But she wanted to explore the way on foot," Gilbert sighed.

"As I recall Lizzy Bennet was fond of walking," Adela smiled serenely at her son.

"I wouldn't know, Ma. I've been too busy with _Jane Eyre,_ " Gilbert gave a secretive smirk, his eyes unable to resist lighting at some memory or other his parents were probably best not to know about.

Adela caught her husband's eye, but they were all saved any revealing anecdotes by Gilbert's insistence he lay in wait for Anne outside, and his parents heartily endorsed this plan, if only to get a moment's peace.

* * *

Anne paused at the approach to Blythe Farm, taking a moment to gather her composure - and adjust her skirts – before taking a breath and pressing forward. She didn't know why she was struck with sudden nerves, and the appearance of the son and heir, rounding the corner with an expectant look that morphed into delight at the sight of her, did little to quell her fluttering stomach. Gilbert had no such hesitation, it seemed, taking quick steps towards her and engulfing her in his embrace.

"Anne! It feels like forever since I've seen you!" he clasped her tightly, swinging her around in a half circle that owed more to enthusiasm than to expertise in that moment. "I was going demented!"

"Over a two-day separation?" she gave a smile, laughing breathlessly. "We've spent whole holidays apart before!"

"Well, you weren't _mine_ then," he explained in a low, smoky voice, looking down to her with darkening eyes.

He swept a look beside and behind them, checking for an unsuspected audience, before lowering his lips to hers.

Two days was little enough time to be away from him, but altogether too much time without the security of his arms around her, or the steadiness of his steadfast smile as he lifted her face to his to stare into her eyes.

" _That_ almost makes those two days worth it!" he laughed quietly.

"Gil…" she murmured, with a blush that was equal parts delight and embarrassment, "suppose somebody sees?"

"It's _Gil_ again, is it? Don't tempt me with that sort of talk, Anne-girl."

She gave bemused look, but as he took her hand to lead them both up to the house she tugged at him to pause, leading him over instead to the shade of a friendly birch by the path.

"Anne?"

"I'm sorry, Gil, I know your parents are expecting us… but… could we sit, for a moment?"

"Of course, m'lady." He doffed his jacket so that she might rest on it and then took a seat carefully beside her.

"Are you alright, Anne? Was it too much sun on the way over? Can I fetch you some water?"

"No, Gil, I'm well, really…" she mumbled. "I'm just… just… a little nervous, today."

"Anne Shirley, nervous?" he gave a crooked, teasing smile. "Recipient of the Thorburn? Fearless debater? Passionate defender of Dickens?"

She gave a flustered, gabbling response, directing the air with her hand. "And nothing makes _you_ nervous I suppose, Mr Freshman President!"

"Oh, if only you knew, Anne Shirley. I'm frequently terrified. Chemistry quizzes. English tutorials with yours truly. Matrons at Girls Homes. Encountering anyone with the surname of Pye, Sloane or Andrews in the street." He grinned at her theatrical eye-roll, drawing his arm around her waist to squeeze it reassuringly. "The question is what has brought _you_ to such a feeling, love?"

Anne's smile faltered. "Do you think… your parents will approve of this?"

" _This?_ "

" _This._ Our courting. Being together at Redmond."

"Oh, Anne!" he laughed in relief. "They already _do!_ I can't tell you how thrilled they are!"

"Really?"

" _Really._ I'm sorry, I had to tell them. I couldn't keep it to myself."

"Well…" she took a steadying breath, "I can hardly be cross at you. I _might_ have told Diana."

Gilbert's smile glowed, polished by a hint of smugness at the corners. "Well, then."

"But your parents… they aren't… _disappointed?_ They might have wished for someone different for you. Someone with family, and _some_ connections, and – "

"Anne! I can't… I can't even _begin_ to tell you that they believe _I'm_ the fortunate one in all this! They probably like you more than they do me already."

Anne smiled despite herself, though her expression soon clouded. "And everyone at Redmond?"

"At _Redmond?_ " he frowned. "Why should you worry about anyone there?"

She bit her lip, hesitating. "You know that there are certain people… even certain lecturers… who still think women don't really need a higher education. That we are only there to… to… find ourselves a husband. To mark time until we can set our cap at any unsuspecting male. _Particularly_ someone like me… an orphan with no other ties."

"Then I challenge _any_ of those naysayers to come up against you in a discussion, Anne," he scowled. "They'll soon see how serious you are about your education and your time there."

"I _am_ serious, Gilbert!" she nodded quickly, clutching his free hand. "It's always been my dream to study, and to make something of myself. _You_ saw where I came from, in Summerside, and before that, Tom and I – " she cut off the thought, and her stream of words; always hesitant to dig up old, painful ground.

"I know… you didn't come from much… _either_ of you," Gilbert acknowledged tightly, his expression sorrowful. "Is _that_ part of it? You're worried about Katherine Brooke? About Tom?"

Anne shrugged her shoulders helplessly. "Probably about _me_ most of all…" she gave a certain look to him, only succeeding in making herself blush.

This elicited a pleased chuckle. "Well, thank _goodness_ for that, Anne! And here I was thinking _I_ was the only one to forget everything – to forget what day it is – when I'm with you. You think _I'm_ not affected by this… this… _thing_ between us?"

" _Really?_ " she risked a look to him with large, soulful grey eyes.

"Most of the time you make me want to abandon everything and go live in a cabin in the woods with you, Anne Shirley," he fairly growled.

She flushed fiercely at his passionate tone. "Not much doctoring needed out there in the woods…" she drew shaking fingers to touch his brow.

"No…" he blew out a breath, watching her as she watched his reaction to those fingers drift to stroke his face, hazel eyes flaring at her touch. "That's why… we're at our best together, Anne. Because we want to help the other _achieve_ all their dreams, not take them away."

She nodded, her throat tight.

"Though _this_ is one of those dreams, you know…" he touched his lips, again, to hers. "I've dreamt about this for a good while, now…" he deepened the kiss, causing her to clutch at his collar a little desperately.

" _A good while?"_ she questioned throatily.

"Anne-girl, you're talking about the fellow who wanted to court you since… well… since maybe that first time at Diana's."

"The afternoon tea? With the scones? No, surely not, Gilbert!" she risked a small smile of amazement.

"Surely _yes!_ " he chuckled. "You answered the door, as if I had beckoned you and you alone and you had heard me…" he gulped, "and you had a smudge of flour, _here,"_ he reached out a long finger to trace a line down her own cheek, his eyes softening. "And then you shared with me a little of your yourself, on the walk home… and I was never so proud to escort you back, and have you take my arm, and think that… that… if I could just have you take my arm, always…" he shrugged, words failing him.

"Oh, Gil…" Anne breathed.

"Of course, it wasn't until later I realised I was in love with you."

She looked down as he took her hand carefully with his free one, stroking the soft skin with his thumb.

"Later?" she clarified unsteadily.

He was quiet for a moment, and the look he gave her was surprisingly bashful.

"At the fundraising dance," he asserted throatily. "Outside. Our waltz."

"Yes…" she clasped his hand tightly, "I remember."

"For you, too?"

She felt the returned blush flare out from cheeks and torch her from crown to toes. "It came on so slowly and steadily, for me… definitely that was a moment when… when… I allowed myself to think it might be possible, between us, but then…" her brow furrowed.

"But then I had to pretend I didn't care for you," he sighed.

This seemed to surprise her, and she swallowed carefully. "I never knew whether you… you had just defended me as a friend, and were trying to… _extricate_ yourself…"

"Anne!" he was aghast.

"It's alright, Gilbert. Diana tried to set me straight, and later Phil too, but it just was… hard to believe you would see anything more than a friend in me."

He was working his jaw furiously. "I certainly hope you are long since disabused of that _incredibly_ false notion, Miss Shirley. I treasure you as a friend, but I love you as… as… my other half. Or, what did your Rochester call it? My – "

"My _second self,"_ ** she finished reverently, her eyes glimmering brightly.

"My _second self,"_ he affirmed, turning to stare at her long and tenderly, enough to make the breath catch in her chest. "Well, then, Anne, _my love,_ my _treasure,_ my… _mine…_ " he gave exaggerated grimace, " _that_ didn't turn out so well."

"No, Gil, it's perfect."

She smiled softly up to him, a different kind of nervous adrenaline beginning to course through her.

"And you mustn't be concerned about courting back at Redmond, Anne. Please. We can take it as slowly as you'd like. I won't start dragging you to every function, don't worry, I – "

"I'll be proud to take your arm, Gil, as much as I was that first day."

His smile matched the new fire in his eyes, kindling something so elemental that she felt the heat of it as of a slow-burning furnace inside her. She reached up and touched tentative fingers now to his lips, and before long replaced them with her mouth, meeting his which was enthusiastically responsive.

"We'd better get up to the house," Gilbert ventured raggedly, long, lustful moments later, "or I really _will_ be placing your arm in mine and running for the hills - or the _woods -_ with you, Anne-girl, searching out that cabin."

She nodded her assent, not trusting herself to words, and as he pulled her up and she rearranged herself again properly, she smiled at she thought of the strong possibility of many more times of mussed hair and rumpled clothing in their future.

"Do I dare ask you about that intriguing smile, Miss Shirley?" Gilbert passed a hand through his hair, shaking out his jacket and shrugging it back over impossibly wide shoulders.

She had better not venture down _that_ path, but she could offer him something else.

"You never asked me what _my_ moment of revelation was, Gilbert. When I finally knew I loved you."

His chuckle was warm and knowing. "Well, obviously prompted by one of my dashing feats of bravery on the football field, or my excellent knowledge of Shakespeare, or my clear willingness to fetch the tea on the train to Summerside."

"All good points, but no."

"No?" He waited patiently for her reply, his lips quirking at her open appraisal, and the glint to her greening eyes.

"It _does_ have something to do with Summerside, though."

"I'm all ears."

"When… I found you in the broom closet."

He spluttered a laugh. "Now _that_ wasn't what I was expecting!" He shoved hands in pockets, shaking his head in disbelief. "So the moment I am at my most tired and overwrought, wrenched from friends and family, stripped of ego and dignity, and shoved in with the dust pans, is the moment you fell for me?"

"That's about the size of it."

He gave an aggrieved sigh. "It's not exactly an anecdote for the ages, Anne."

She stepped up to him, slowly and deliberately. "It is to me. It's when I saw true goodness, Gilbert. Selflessness and strength and support… that you would endure all that you mentioned just now, for me, and do it with not only humour and humility but whilst being so ridiculously handsome…" her arms came to his neck, sure and steady, not flinging themselves briefly, as that time she talked of, but with a new sensuality that quickened his pulse.

"Well… when you put it _that_ way…" he whispered, eager hands finding her waist.

They were further delayed, so much so that John Blythe was almost forced to go in search of them, almost barrelling into the delighted-for-themselves couple at the door, flushed and grinning, and resolutely arm in arm.

* * *

The lane that might have been known for lovers - and definitely cows - was a long, dreamy, dappled expense; a _leafy arch of maples… that opened out below the orchard at Green Gables and stretched far up into the woods to the end of the Cuthbert farm._ *** Gilbert reluctantly agreed to walk her the way in order to meet Tom, after her lively lunch at the Blythes, during which John gifted her a signature hug and even a kiss on the cheek, and Adela not only measured her up for a new dress, insisting she just _had_ to use up some leftover material, but sent her off with a little package of lace, buttons and other embellishments, so that she might make over her others. This way she would be all the better prepared for when Gilbert squired her around at Redmond. Anne was overwhelmed by their kindness, having to blink away tears at Adela's wish to "spoil her as Gilbert's girl, and by default theirs."

So now, hand in hand with the man himself, she was quiet and thoughtful as she reflected upon her extraordinary fortnight in Avonlea. The only thing that marred it, now, was the conversation that must come, and she hoped, an understanding of the direction her heart had taken.

"Anne…" Gilbert ventured, his new frown accentuated by the shadows cast by the foliage above as they walked the lane; a long-ago promise made real. "Do you really think you should do this? Tom's not expecting you until tomorrow… you may catch him off guard."

"Gilbert, your parents know now. So does Diana, which means so will Fred. I can't risk him hearing about us from someone other than me."

Gilbert's sigh was audible. "Anne, I've known Tom just about as long as you have. I think he would like to feel… prepared for your visit. He's a methodical guy. If you caught him unawares it may… make a likely tense situation worse."

"You think this is a mistake?" her auburn brows drew together in query. "I was hoping… I could tell him now, and visit with him properly tomorrow, when he's been able to… process things."

"Anne, I don't think his reaction to this news will change in a day," Gilbert muttered.

Anne looked up to the man beside her, worrying her lip at his grim expression.

"You think… this could go badly?"

Gilbert blew a frustrated breath. "I wanted to have my own conversation with him, actually. Just to… clear the air. He's been good and fair and decent, and deserves to know how I feel about you… and deserves to be able to detail his own feelings. But after today he'll probably order me off the property with a shotgun." He paused, face darkening. "Or Marilla Cuthbert will."

"Gilbert! I think you might be exaggerating! The Cuthberts are lovely! And Tom… he is my oldest friend. At one time he was my _only_ friend. Neither of us would ever jeopardise that…"

"All I'm saying is that if it was me, I'd be crushed, Anne-girl."

" _Crushed?"_ Anne quailed, remembering Diana's words of mere days ago… _you've won Gilbert's heart, but you might be about to break Tom's._ "But Gilbert! We… that is, _I…"_

Gilbert turned to place large hands on small shoulders, his smile and his words fighting now to reassure.

"Anne, darling, I'm sorry. I don't want to worry you. And I might be wrong – I certainly hope that I am. I just would wish for you to be prepared for his reaction. _Whatever_ it might be."

Anne considered this sorrowfully for several minutes, as they continued walking, glimpsing the end of the lane, the orchard in the distance, and Anne could picture the handsome house beyond.

"Would you… like me to come with you?" he asked, fairly confident of a refusal.

"No… thank you… I need to do this on my own. I owe him _that_ much."

Gilbert nodded, kissing her lightly on the lips. "If no one at the Cuthbert's can drop you back at Diana's, Anne, take this laneway all the way back, and I'll keep a watch for you at the other end of it."

"Thank you, Gilbert. And please thank your parents again – they are simply wonderful!"

"Well, shared genes and all," he winked.

"We are _friends,_ Tom and I _…_ " she determined resolutely, bidding him farewell. "I _know_ we can remain so – we've been through too much, together." _And apart._

"My love, I appreciate that… It's just that… Tom doesn't look at you like a friend does, sweetheart. Perhaps he never did. And the reason I know… is because I look at you the same way."

* * *

Anne heard Tom before she saw him; the dull _thwack_ of axe on wood, struck with power and precision, which catapulted her back through the years to the _tall and tow-haired, gangly and good-natured_ boy he had been, using what skill and limited strength he had to keep them as warm as the draughty walls of the orphanage permitted, which was to say not very much. He had chopped wood up and down the neighbouring streets, trading favours, mostly for her; she owed her first proper shiny-new pencil to him, still smelling of woodchips and lead; and also a faded green ribbon, which felt as new as the day another young miss had first worn it. There had been other treats for other children, even for little Lily, for Tom had always possessed a generous, egalitarian spirit, which had found solid shape and definition in his whittling. It had been another skill born of the land and of nature and honed by need and necessity; but he had turned it into something worthy and wonderful.

He had always done that; most noticeably at Green Gables; taking a modest farm and working it into profit; finding himself between two reclusive siblings and transforming them into a family. To take disparate parts and make them whole; to take something and reshape it. It was his gift and, perhaps unknowingly, his quest, ever since the time he had toddled over to the door to watch his father leave through it for the last time, and sought ever after in his steady, quiet way to put the fractured pieces he saw around him back together.

Would _their_ pieces remain so?

* * *

Tom had never minded woodchopping; the reassuring weight of the axe; the firm, steady motion, like a rhythmic, hypnotic dance; the way he could clear his mind and concentrate on nothing but the repetitive, steady strokes. He chopped often, for Green Gables and surrounds; sometimes Mr Harrison's back troubled him; the good reverend was always better with a sermon than a blade; the schoolhouse was always running short, whether with a female schoolmistress or no; the curious, solitary spinster and her talkative charge all the way up to Echo Lodge couldn't always be warmed by dreams and fancy.

He paused to wipe the sweat on his brow, transferring glistening sheen to bronzed bicep; clad in old trousers and an undershirt, he planned to finish the chopping and then deliver it on his way into town, once Matthew returned with the buggy. He wanted to browse the general store for something for Anne before her departure the day after next; for what, he had no idea, but he had to trust that inspiration would strike once he was confronted by some choices.

And then… a blaze of red on his periphery.

"A… Anne?"

"Oh, Tom! Hello! I hope I didn't startle you!"

"No… 'course not…" he grinned his surprise. "We just weren't expecting you until tomorrow. Unless I've got the day wrong?"

"No, you haven't. I'm sorry. I just… needed to see you. I came up the lane, and here I am."

 _And here she was._

 _She just needed to see him._

He gulped a proper greeting, noting her grey gaze warming in the sun, before she averted her eyes with a flustered smile and he remembered his state of undress, hastily hauling on his shirt before giving her a careful hug, apologising as he did so for the mess- in every respect – that she found him in.

" _I_ should be the one apologising, Tom, really – I came unannounced, when you're all in the middle of chores and whatnot, and – "

"Anne – you are the _very best_ distraction. Come into the house and see everyone again, while I get cleaned up, and – "

"Oh, Tom, no, I will just wait out here – I've trampled on everyone's afternoon. I was _told_ this was one of my lesser ideas – I'm so scatterbrained to think I can just show up and wreak havoc on everyone's plans!"

Tom looked at her long moments, his lips fighting his smile, even as he shook his head in fond dispute.

"What is it?"

"Oh, Anne, you sound about - _eleven_ – when you say that. And unless you plan to have me enact some horror ghost story, pretending I've lost my head, I don't think you're going to – what was it? – _wreak havoc_ anywhere. And in matters of havoc, we normally leave those to Davy, at any rate." He allowed his grin to shine through, finally, warm as the color of his sun-ripened hair. "He'll be sorry to miss you today, that one. He's talked about you and the cow-milking for a week!"

Anne relaxed into her own smile, breathing through her worry as Tom honoured her desire to remain unannounced, instead stowing away the axe and walking quickly up to the great gabled house, whilst she waited in the security of the shadows at the edge of the orchard. The air was sweet and full of promise this afternoon, and the surrounds calmed her unsteady heart – as did Tom's greeting.

 _It would all be all right._

Tom returned with admirable speed, having washed and donned good trousers and a fetching blue shirt, pulling suspenders back up as he came, and hiding something behind his back that turned out to be a bottle of raspberry cordial – and one glass.

"It was all I could find as I swept past the kitchen," he explained. "I didn't dare risk searching for anything to eat, Anne. Are you _sure_ you won't come up to the house?"

"No, I'm fine, Tom! I'm just happy to enjoy _your_ company at the moment. And I've eaten at – ah, before I came - so please don't worry."

He nodded easily, always content to accept her wishes, and walked with her in companionable quiet, skirting the orchard and the lane and coming out to a pretty little spring, seating themselves on big, conveniently situated red stones, close enough to the water that they might almost stretch out and dip their toes.

"Oh, this is beautiful, Tom! Avonlea seems to be full of these hidden gems – these little bubbles of delight."

His look was thoughtful, though his eyes smiled at her enthusiasm. "I come here often, just to sit. It's one of my favourite places."

"I can just imagine you here. It will be lovely, to be able to place you, when I'm back in Kingsport."

It perhaps wasn't the most brilliant thing to say, causing his posture to stiffen as if guarding his body against the inevitability of her return to college, but he busied himself instead pouring the cordial, offering her the glass.

"I've just gotten used to being with you, again," he admitted, a mournful note shading the determined cheer of his demeanour. "It will be a wrench to have you go, Anne."

"And for me," she admitted quietly, with a truth that was its own axe to her heart. They seemed always destined to be parted from the other, left wistful and wondering. "But we'll have our letters, Tom. And you can write to me about anything here and I'll understand, now. I've seen it here and I've met the people here and I've seen _you_ here. It makes a wonderful sort of sense to me. You _belong_ here, Tom."

"And _you_ don't?" his sandy brows worried over those clear, pale blue eyes.

It had been similar to what Gilbert had asked her back at the schoolhouse, and she had no better answer now than she had then.

"Maybe I'm not meant to belong _anywhere,"_ she shrugged helplessly, misjudging her next sip and nearly spilling a vivid red vein down her dress. "Except maybe in a dusty library somewhere."

There were several beats of silence, and then the throaty declaration. "You belong in my heart, Anne. That's where you've always been."

Anne patted her chin for stray drops and placed the glass down with a suddenly shaking hand.

"Tom, that's so lovely of you. And _you_ are in mine! But I… I…"

"I wish we had more than letters, Anne! I wish we had more time together than every other day, me sharing you with Gilbert and Diana. That it was just we two, as it used to be!"

Her mouth dropped open.

"Tom! You don't mean that you…?"

"Of _course_ I don't wish us back at the orphanage!" he pleaded, usually serene eyes growing stormy as he turned to her. " _But there's something I wish to say to you, Anne._ **** We could be together still… I could come up to Kingsport of a weekend, and you could come here, and we could… well… we could…"

 _"Oh, don't say it," cried Anne, pleadingly. "Don't - PLEASE,_ Tom! _"_

He viewed her in clear confusion. "But… _I must. Things can't go on like this any longer. Anne._ We could be _properly_ together, you and I."

"Tom…"

"Because…" his face contorted with the effort of his admission, "because… _I love you. You know I do. I – I can't tell you how much._ Would you court with me, Anne?"

The sips of cordial might as well have been that of currant wine, for the liquid seemed to pool like poison at the pit of her belly, replacing her fluttering at the start of the day with the sink-weight of a thousand rocks, pinning her to the one she sat on, unable to even move her mouth in answer. She turned helpless eyes to Tom, whose own steady gaze, usually so buoyant, began to submerge under the realisation of her uncertainty.

"Anne?" he questioned, reaching for her hand.

"Tom…" she spluttered wretchedly. "Oh, Tom!"

In her hesitation he found his answer, inhaling a breath that might have been a drowning man's dying gasp. He turned away, mouth pulled into a pained grimace.

" _Don't you care for me at all?"_

"Tom, please!" she now asked, trying to grab back the hand he had just withdrawn. "I need to explain!"

"How you're in love with Gilbert?" he muttered bleakly. "I already know _that_ much, Anne."

"Has… has… somebody talked to you? Did somebody say something?"

He _gave a bitter little laugh._

"They didn't need to," he turned back to her, eyes taking the risk in meeting hers, though the shooting pain in them made her wince. "It's nothing I haven't seen for myself. Nothing good ever comes of you disappearing with Gilbert at large gatherings." He gave the ghost of a grieved smile, made warped in his misery.

Anne blushed guiltily at his reference to the picnic at Orchard Slope, and maybe even to the time of that _other_ afternoon tea at Diana's, when Tom and Gilbert had arrived together, Phil in tow; an arrestingly attractive trio standing expectantly before her. She had been proud – so _very_ proud – to see him with their joint friends that day, and to know that everyone else saw, as she did, what a fine man he had turned into. But all she saw now was the boy… that bereft, tortured boy, heartbroken, and it was _her_ fault.

"Tom… I _do_ love you! You _must_ know that!"

His handsome fair face fell to see the truth of it in her wild, ready tears.

"But not the same way…" he shook his head, looking out to the stream as if searching for answers. "I knew I'd have no chance with you, _that_ way, once Gil showed up. I see how you… _spark…_ one another. And I can't compete with his charm or his… confidence…"

"You don't have to! It's not like that, Tom!"

"But it _is,_ Anne! Blythes always get what they want – or leave behind what they _don't_ want," he scowled. "I c _an't_ stand by and see that happen to you, too."

"What on earth are you talking about?" she couldn't fathom his cryptic response, and the uncharacteristic bitterness with which it was delivered.

"Never mind…" he touched the heels of both hands against his face, briefly covering his eyes, agitated enough to seem to want to try to gouge them out.

"Gil… Gil has always acted honourably towards me, Tom. He's asked to… court me."

Tom lifted his face back to hers, his expression becoming shuttered at the news.

"To _court_ you…" he repeated dully. "There's an end to it, then."

"Tom, I'm sorry…" she murmured. "The last thing on earth I want to do is to hurt you."

"I never lost the hope of finding you, Anne…" he gave a deathly whisper. "I never lost the hope of _us._ Through s _even years…_ And he's known you, what? Seven _months?_ "

"I always had the hope of you too, Tom! But I never wanted you to wait for me in _that_ way! It wouldn't have been fair! That's not… that's not… how we were together. That's not what we _meant_ to each other!"

"We'll never know _what_ we could have meant to each other, Anne, because you still see me as that scared kid you had to coax out of his shell! The sad, shy one missing his mother!"

Her face burned in protest. "That's not true!"

He shook his head violently. "You were ready and waiting for someone like Gilbert Blythe to come riding down on his white horse. _I'm_ the stupid one stuck behind the plough!"

He leapt up in his torment, accidentally upending the bottle of cordial, its rich ruby contents spilling out onto the ground as if the last pulsing of a heart bled dry.

"Does he really even know you at all?" he continued, agonised, _his face white to the lips_. "Does he know _anything_ real about you, or just the nice bits you've told him? I bet if you'd grown up with Gil sitting across from you in school, you wouldn't be so interested in him now!"

Anne wouldn't be outdone, springing up herself, turning self-righteous in her desperation.

"If _I'd_ sat across from Gilbert in school, _I'd_ also be the one going back to supper with my _family_! _I'd_ get to sit and listen to Davy tell some silly story or Mrs Lynde some piece of local gossip! I wouldn't _still_ be spending my time being passed around my friends like some prize at the fair! And let me tell you something, Tom Caruthers, Gilbert knows e _verything!_ I told him."

"You _told_ him?" he quailed. "What exactly did you _tell_ him?"

"What there was to tell, I told him."

"Well, congratulations! I'll think over that tonight when I'm not still feeling the guilt over having to leave you and … and… being sent against my will to Green Gables, shall I?" Tom fisted large hands into his pockets, hunching over in his pain.

His surprising sarcasm was like a blow, and she clutched her middle as if to absorb its impact. Anne blew out a trembling breath, her flare of frustration rapidly losing heat.

"I didn't mean that, about Green Gables, Tom," Anne offered, low-voiced.

"I know."

"Or… those stupid remarks about my friends."

"I know that, too," he gave a defeated shrug.

"And Gilbert is _tremendously_ grateful to you, for … for everything. He says you were incredibly brave, and that he owes you a debt."

"What does that even _mean ?"_ he threw a look of exasperation over his broad shoulder. "I might have _read The Three Musketeers_ but Gilbert acts as if he _is_ one!"

The funniest observations usually live inside a little grain of truth, and it was this that quirked Anne's lips, building to a bubble of laughter that escaped her; undoubtedly unwise and definitely disloyal, but unable to be stoppered.

Tom turned in clear surprise, trying to hold onto the last traces of his affront. He surveyed her wide-eyed for long moments before succumbing to a reluctant, dry chuckle. He looked out to the water, shaking his head.

"Anne, for goodness' sake, sit down again," he sighed. " _Please…_ I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for, Tom. _I'm_ sorry."

"Just let me be sorry, and just… don't _talk_ for a minute."

Anne huffed, reseating herself with queenly grace. "You might need to give me a more achievable objective."

His short stab of laughter escaped more easily this time. He took his own direction, again plonking himself next to her, wondering how long he should try to test her resolve.

"Well… I might tell you something that will stun you into silence for a time, Anne," he offered in a rumbling bass.

She gave an arch of her auburn brow.

"Priscilla Grant knows about us, too."

Anne's face, always mobile and expressive, looked to be suffering a sudden paroxysm.

" _Pris? What?_ I don't understand…"

Tom might have once feared the discovery of their secret, but now there was almost a comfort in the shared confidence, and he wanted Anne to know that, too.

"At the picnic at Diana's… we took a walk. And she told me a bit about her family… and about neighbours she used to know in her village. About her mother's best friend, a Mrs Spencer, of the Spencervale Spencers, who had long ago moved to White Sands. You might remember this Mrs Spencer – she had quite the story to tell Pris's mother one time, apparently, which Pris wasn't meant to overhear. About the day she came to collect her new daughter, Lily, from the orphanage in Hopetown. And… someone else."

Anne's grey eyes were as wide as her agog mouth, and Tom took a moment to smile wryly at the spectacle.

"Oh. My. _Goodness._ "

"That was… a fair account of _my_ reaction."

Anne's grey eyes darted about, as her thoughts. "That's… _extraordinary."_

Tom nodded.

"But… how did Pris know that… it was about _us?"_

At this Tom's face, tanned and smooth as honey, flushed ever so slightly under the warm afternoon sun.

"She remembered that the blonde boy of the story had gone to live in Avonlea, at Green Gables," he ventured. "She liked and remembered the name. And then, years later, when she was teaching in Carmody, and Gilbert had the school here, I helped out fixing the roof. Pris begged us to come and fix the shingles on her own schoolhouse. Gilbert introduced me as his friend from Avonlea… and once she knew I lived at Green Gables, well, it didn't take her long to figure it."

"She's never said a word…" Anne said wonderingly, though she was trying to process a hundred heartfelt looks from Miss Grant, made more meaningful now in the light of this knowledge. And… Diana's words, about how Tom's heart may not be broken forever. But this explained Pris's interest then, surely…?

"To be fair," Tom continued, breaking into her musings, "she wouldn't have known you were the girl meant for Green Gables till much later, I should think. And she kept quiet anyway, out of kindness."

"Yes … it was months before I even told anyone that… I was an orphan. But… why should Pris tell you _now?_ Doesn't it seem… well, _odd_?"

"Oh, I see, so Gilbert gets to know about us and can be all gallant about it, but Priscilla Grant has some secret hidden agenda?" he muttered derisively.

Anne colored. "No, forgive me, you're right," she murmured shamefacedly.

Tom paused to sigh, rubbing a hand at his forehead tiredly.

"So… the _I'm an orphan_ business. Did they treat you like you had a fatal disease they could catch?" he quirked a sandy brow, some of his quiet humour re-emerging.

"No!" she smirked. "Well, maybe Charlie Sloane. They were lovely. If… decidedly uncomfortable. At least initially."

" _Exactly._ That's why Marilla and Matthew introduced me as their kin. It kept me away from gossip. And it… kept me safe." He seemed to take a painful gulp. "As _you_ did."

She nodded sadly, but then something caused a fleeting smile.

"Anne? What was _that_ look?"

"Oh, I'm just imagining you and Gil, on the schoolhouse roof…"

He allowed a grin. "Well, let's be clear. There was _one_ of us on the roof, and one of us chatting to Miss Grant. And I think you can figure who was who."

Anne risked an indulgent look, informed by her love for _both_ men. "You two were good friends, once? That's always heartened me, Tom."

"Yeah…" he acknowledged, not as reluctantly as he might. "Gilbert has always… well…. gathered people around him, I guess."

Anne nodded, eyes burning. "In Kingsport, too. He was my friend as well… just a friend… for a long time, Tom." She sniffed loudly, earning a fond look of her own in return. "But _you_ were my best friend, Tom. My first friend. It seemed like you would ever be my _only_ friend. _And we must… we must go on being friends…_ I couldn't _bear_ to lose you, but… I don't want to bring you more pain…"

 _"Friends! Your_ talk of _friendship can't satisfy me, Anne._ I expect a blood vow, at the very least."

Anne looked to him, shocked, till she relaxed at the quirk to his lips, giving her own stuttering sob-laugh in reply.

"Listen, Anne…" he offered throatily, serious again now, his eyes suspiciously bright themselves. "We had seven years without the other. _That_ is a pain I don't want to have over again." He ached to put his arms around her, but it wasn't his place, now. "Will you come, still, for your visit tomorrow?"

"Do you still want me to?" she brushed impatiently at the tears at her cheeks.

"Of course. Though I can't pretend there won't be muttered _opinions_ expressed about you and Gilbert."

"It's only _your_ opinion I most care about."

He sought to lighten her grave look. "Well, Gilbert had better watch his step, is all I will now say about that subject."

She chuckled, low. "Point taken."

"And I'll be here, waiting patiently, if he trips."

She gave a tremulous, hopeful smile. "I'll tell him."

His own smile was knowing. "Or maybe _I_ will."

Anne nodded now, daring to hope herself.

"Then… will you… be alright, Tom? Will _this_ be… alright?" Anne couldn't disguise the tremor in her voice.

There was a stoicism in Tom Caruthers that was perhaps of his mother, but a quiet faith that was entirely Cuthbert. Both had enabled him to endure many things, but it was his connection to the creature beside him that had sustained him. If he lost Anne forever – through pride, through envy, though hurt, through even spite – what would the rest of it, all he had worked for and achieved, even matter?

He put aside the dull ache of disappointment, and took hold of her hand, and she promptly threaded her other arm through his, leaning her head on his shoulder, making his parched throat throb with longing. This… this link between them, he knew, was special of itself, and all the suitors in the world couldn't change that. And if… and if Anne had said he was her first friend, then, well, the claim worked both ways.

 _Would HE be alright?_

 _Would THIS be alright?_

"Not yet… " he finally answered. "But it will be." *****

* * *

"Gil!" Fred urged, half hanging out of the door to the boat train bound for Kingsport. "If they don't come in a minute you'll have to get the porter to take your luggage off!"

"I know!" Gilbert frowned, scanning the relatives scattered at a polite distance along the platform at Bright River; a more subdued crowd than had greeted them upon their arrival a fortnight ago.

Already there were ripples of change; the Barrys and the Wrights stood together now in strained solidarity, feeling compelled to farewell the daughter and son of both houses with a polite public peck or a too-hearty handshake. The Sloanes and Gillises chatted with Mr and Mrs Harmon Andrews, Jane's mother loudly lamenting that this would be the last time she farewelled her second daughter before doing so to the wilds of Winnipeg on her millionaire's arm. Pris's merry father was accompanied this time by his once-handsome, now rather whey-faced wife, even as Pris herself peered down the platform, following Gilbert's own gaze with a look that was too anxious for mere curiosity. With Cuthberts noticeably absent at the moment, the Blythes stood awkwardly, already having enveloped Gilbert in a warm, and in his mother's case, tearful embrace, and now were looking to one another in silent question.

"It would have made more sense for Anne to come with the rest of us in convoy!" Fred offered.

"Of course it would!" Gilbert tried not to scowl in being thus reminded of this obvious logic. "But Tom wanted to collect her this morning and then drop her himself, and to take a particular route from Avonlea to here. I could hardly begrudge him _that,_ could I?"

"You'll begrudge him plenty if Anne misses the train," Fred replied, in an observation that was accurate, if not entirely helpful.

As the porter announced the last call for passengers, a commotion in the direction of the cherry tree heralded their eleventh-hour arrivals; a flustered but glowing Anne, carrying a sprig of white blossom she barely remembered not to crush under her coat; Tom, hauling her trunk with admirable strength and speed if not complete dexterity; and most surprising of all, the flaxen-haired young Keiths, caught up in the excitement of the dash with none of the actual concern for the timing.

"Anne!" Gilbert shouted, waving at her and then striding forward to take one of the handles from Tom, and together they thrust it at the porter as Anne brandished her ticket.

"Sorry!" she gasped breathlessly, and her red-cheeked visage made her eyes shine so wonderfully he couldn't be annoyed now, even if he wanted to. "We doubled back via Barry's pond, and then along something called The Avenue – it always takes longer when the way is so lovely!"

There was no time for a conversation about it; only time for her to throw a wave at his parents and the Barrys, offer a lightning-fast hug to Davy and Dora, and then, an infinitesimal hesitation before the embrace continued for Tom. He took Anne's arm and helped her up onto the train where Gilbert safeguarded her until Diana ushered her to their saved seats inside the carriage.

Gilbert turned back to a suddenly stony-faced Tom, who nodded curtly and tipped his hat.

"Thank you, Tom," Gilbert managed, as the whistle blew.

It was thank you for too many things, and perhaps inadequate for every one of them, but he offered it in hope anyway, to this man who was the boy who _had_ sat across from him in school.

And the man who had known that redhaired girl first, and perhaps still best, naturally didn't ask for Gilbert to take care of her in his absence, for the girl had already spent a lifetime doing that for herself. Instead, something more potent and personal; a warning and a promise in one.

"Do right by her, Gilbert."

"I will."

The train jolted and puffed away. Tom stepped back to ensure the twins were free of the tracks. He saw a cavalcade of faces pressed to the glass, hands waving frantically in silent pantomime, but the images were indistinct in the contrast of the darkened carriage and the light of the young morning. He saw a flash of red as a blur; the last thing he saw was a blonde head sitting higher than most others, blue-eyed gaze like a streak of azure sky catching his own as she passed.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

A new chapter title! Thank goodness for that!

" _ **Marilla was thinking of her whole past life, her cramped but not unhappy childhood, the jealously hidden dreams and the blighted hopes of her girlhood, the long, grey, narrow, monotonous years of dull middle life that followed."**_ _Anne of the Island_ (Ch 22).

I am here imagining _oz diva_ frowning at my hijacking of such a fabulous Marilla section. Sorry!

*Liberal quoting throughout this section from Ch 13 _'A Golden Picnic'_ in _Anne of Avonlea,_ with updates and alterations hopefully befitting the changes in situation and circumstance here!

**Charlotte Bronte _Jane Eyre_ (Ch 23)

*** _Anne of Green Gables_ (Ch 15)

**** _Anne of the Island_ (Ch 20) interspersed throughout this section. It may be viewed as sacrilegious to give canon Gilbert's (and Anne's) words away here, but they do fit too well… and surely you don't want me to have Gilbert relive that agony again? (It's bad enough for Tom).

****This is taken from Frasier's words to Niles, slightly altered, at the end of the classic _Frasier_ episode, _Room Service_ … in which Niles and Lilith may have taken familial ties a little too far… I have always loved it, for its meaning as much as for its deceptive simplicity; it's acknowledgment of hurt, but that hurt doesn't negate the love underneath… and hope it works the same way here.


End file.
